P  L  AY  S 


SECOND  SERIES 


THE  ELDEST  SON 

THE  LITTLE  DREAM 

JUSTICE 


JOHN 
.SWORTHY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Kenneth  MacKenna 


9V  THE  SAME  AUTSOM 

VILLA    RUBEIN,  mA  Ottw  Storiw 

THE   ISLAND   PHARISEES 

THE   MAN   OF  PROPERTY 

THE  COUNTRY   HOUSE 

FRATERNITY 

THE   PATRICIAN 

THE  DARK   FLOWER 

THE   FRBELAND8 

BEYOND 

FIVE  TALES 
SAINT'S  PROGRESS 
TATTERDEMALION 
IN  CHANCERY 

A  COMMENTARY 

A  MOTLEY 

THE  INN   OP  TRANQUILLITY 

THE   LITTLE   MAN,  and  Otter  SaHf 

A  SHEAF 

ANOTHER  SHEAF 

ADDRESSES  IN   AMERICA:    191* 


PLAYS:  FIRST  SERIES 

and  8fparai»lti 
THE   SILVER  BOX 
JOY 
STRIFE 

PLAYS:  SECOND  SERIES 

THE  ELDEST  SON 
THE  LITTLE  DREAM 

JUSTICE 

PLAYS:  THIRD  SERIES 


ItiE  FUGITIVE 
THE  PIGEON 
THE  MOB 

PLAYS:  FOURTH  SERIES 

and  Htpar 
A  BIT  O'   LOVE 
THE  FOtTNDATIONS 
THE  SKIN   GAME 


MOODS,   SONGS,    AND   DOGGERELS 
MEMORIES.      Illustrated. 
AWAKENIWG 


PLAYS 

SECOND  SEMES 


PLAYS 


SECOND  SERIES 


THE   ELDEST  SON 

THE   LITTLE   DREAM 
JUSTICE 


BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1921 


THE  ELDEST  SON 

COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

THE  LITTLE  DREAM 

COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

JUSTICE 
COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SON.-) 


AU  rights  rtttrm* 


THE  SCRIBNER  PRESS 


College 
Library 

PR 


JOHN  MASEFIELD 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 


The  order  of  these  plays  follows  the  chronology  of  their 
writing,  not  that  of  their  production.  "The  Eldest 
Son"  was  written — first  of  the  three — in  the  early 
months  of  1909.  Accidents,  happy  and  unhappy,  have 
prevented  its  performance  earlier  than  November,  1912. 


THE  ELDEST  SON 

A  DOMESTIC  DRAMA  IN  THREE  ACTS 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

Sm  WILLIAM  CHESHIRE,  a  baronet 

LADY  CHESHIRE,  his  wife 

BILL,  their  eldest  son 

HAROLD,  their  second  son 

RONALD  KEITK  (in  the  Lancers),  their  son-in-law 

CHRISTINE  (his  wife),  their  eldest  daughter 

DOT,  their  second  daughter 

JOAN,  their  third  daugfiter 

MABEL  LANFARNE,  their  guest 

THE  REVEREND  JOHN  LATTER,  engaged  to  Joan 

OLD  STUDDENHAM,  the  head-keeper 

FREDA  STUDDENHAM,  the  lady's-maid 

YOUNG  DUNNING,  the  under-keener 

ROSE  TAYLOR,  a  village  girl 

JACKSON,  the  butler 

CHARLES,  a  footman 

TIME:  The  present.     The  action  posset  on  December  7  and 
8  at  the  Cheshire*'  country  house,  in  one  of  the  shires. 

ACT  1.     SCENE  I.     The  hall;  before  dinner. 
SCENE  II.     The  hall;  after  dinner. 
ACT  II.    Lady  Cheshire's  morning  room;  after  breakfast. 

ACT  HI.     The  smoking-room;  tea-time. 

A  night  elapses  between  Acts  I.  and  II. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I 

The  scene  is  a  well-lighted,  and  large,  oak-panelled 
hall,  with  an  air  of  being  lived  in,  and  a  broad,  oak 
staircase.  The  dining-room,  drawing-room,  billiard- 
room,  att  open  into  it;  and  under  the  staircase  a 
door  leads  to  the  servants'  quarters.  In  a  huge  fire- 
place a  log  fire  is  burning.  There  are  tiger-skins  on 
the  floor,  horns  on  the  walls;  and  a  writing-table 
against  the  wall  opposite  the  fireplace.  FREDA 
STUDDENHAM,  a  pretty,  pale  girl  with  dark  eyes,  in 
the  black  dress  of  a  lady's-maid,  is  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  staircase  with  a  bunch  of  white  rosts  in 
one  hand,  and  a  bunch  of  yellow  roses  in  the  other. 
A  door  closes  above,  and  SIR  WILLIAM  CHESHIRE, 
in  evening  dress,  comes  downstairs.  He  is  perhaps 
fifty-eight,  of  strong  build,  rather  bull-necked,  with 
grey  eyes,  and  a  well-coloured  face,  whose  choleric 
autocracy  is  veiled  by  a  thin  urbanity.  He  speaks 
before  he  reaches  the  bottom. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Well,  Freda!    Nice  roses.    Who  are 
they  for  ? 

FREDA.  My  lady  told  me  to  give  the  yellow  to  Mrs. ' 
Keith,  Sir  William,  and  the  white  to  Miss  Lanfarne,  for 
their  first  evening. 


4  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  i 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Capital.  [Passing  on  towards  the 
drawing-room}  Your  father  coming  up  to-night? 

FREDA.  Yes. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Be  good  enough  to  tell  him  I  specially 
want  to  see  him  here  after  dinner,  will  you  ? 

FREDA.  Yes,  Sir  William. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  By  the  way,  just  ask  him  to  bring  the 
game-book  in,  if  he's  got  it. 

He  goes  out  into  the  drawing-room;  and  FREDA 
stands  restlessly  tapping  her  foot  against  the 
bottom  stair.  With  a  flutter  of  skirts  CHRIS- 
TINE KEITH  comes  rapidly  down.  She  is  a 
nice-looking,  fresh-coloured  young  woman  in  a 
low-necked  dress. 

CHRISTINE.  Hullo,  Freda !    How  are  you-  ? 

FREDA.  Quite  well,  thank  you,  Miss  Christine — 
Mrs.  Keith,  I  mean.  My  lady  told  me  to  give  you 
these. 

CHRISTINE.  [Taking  the  roses]  Oh!  Thanks!  How 
sweet  of  mother ! 

FREDA.  [In  a  quick,  toneless  voice]  The  others  are  for 
Miss  Lanfarne.  My  lady  thought  white  would  suit  her 
better. 

CHRISTINE.  They  suit  you  in  that  black  dress. 

[FREDA  lowers  the  roses  quickly. 
What  do  you  think  of  Joan's  engagement? 

FREDA.  It's  very  nice  for  her. 

CHRISTINE.  I  say,  Freda,  have  they  been  going  hard 
at  rehearsals  ? 


sc.  i  THE  ELDEST  SON  5 

FREDA.  Every  day.  Miss  Dot  gets  very  cross,  stage- 
managing. 

CHRISTINE.  I  do  hate  learning  a  part.  Thanks 
awfully  for  unpacking.  Any  news? 

FREOA.  [In  the  same  quick,  dull  voice]  The  under- 
keeper,  Dunning,  won't  marry  Rose  Taylor,  after 
all. 

CHRISTINE.  What  a  shame!  But  I  say  that's  serious. 
I  thought  there  was — she  was — I  mean 

FREDA.  He's  taken  up  with  another  girl,  they  say. 

CHRISTINE.  Too  bad!  [Pinning  the  roses]  D'you 
know  if  Mr.  Bill's  come? 

FREDA.  [With  a  swift  upward  look]  Yes,  by  the  six- 
forty. 

RONALD  KEITH  comes  slowly  down,  a  weathered 
firm-lipped  man,  in  evening  dress,  with  eyelids 
half  drawn  over  his  keen  eyes,  and  the  air  of  a 
horseman. 

KEITH.  Hallo!  Roses  in  December.  I  say,  Freda, 
your  father  missed  a  wigging  this  morning  when  they 
drew  blank  at  Warnham's  spinney.  Where's  that  litter 
of  little  foxes  ? 

FREDA.  [Smiling faintly]  I  expect  father  knows,  Cap- 
tain Keith. 

KEITH.  You  bet  he  does.  Emigration?  Or  thin  air? 
What? 

CHRISTINE.  Studdenham'd  never  shoot  a  fox,  Ronny. 
He's  been  here  since  the  flood. 

KEITH.  There's  more  ways  of  killing  a  cat — eh, 
Freda? 


6  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  i 

CHRISTINE.  [Moving  with  her  husband  towards  the 
drawing-room]  Young  Dunning  won't  marry  that  girl, 
Ronny. 

KEITH.  Phew!  Wouldn't  be  in  his  shoes,  then!  Sir 
William'll  never  keep  a  servant  who's  made  a  scandal 
in  the  village,  old  girl.  Bill  come  ? 

As  they  disappear  from  the  hall,  JOHN  LATTER 
in  a  clergyman's  evening  dress,  comes  sedately 
downstairs,  a  tall,  rather  pale  young  man,  with 
something  in  him,  as  it  were,  both  of  heaven, 
and  a  drawing-room.  He  passes  FREDA  with  a 
formal  little  nod.  HAROLD,  a  fresh-cheeked, 
cheery-looking  youth,  comes  down,  three  steps 
at  a  time. 

HAROLD.  Hallo,  Freda!  Patience  on  the  monument. 
Let's  have  a  sniff!  For  Miss  Lanfarne?  Bill  come 
down  yet  ? 

FREDA.  No,  Mr.  Harold. 

HAROLD  crosses  the  hall,  whistling,  and  follows 
LATTER  into  the  drawing-room.  There  is  the 
sound  of  a  scuffle  above,  and  a  voice  crying: 
"Shut  up,  Dot ! "  And  JOAN  comes  down  screw- 
ing her  head  back.  She  is  pretty  and  small, 
with  large  clinging  eyes. 

JOAN.  Am  I  all  right  behind,  Freda?  That  beast, 
Dot! 

FREDA.  Quite,  Miss  Joan. 

DOT'S  face,  like  a  full  moon,  appears  over  the 
upper  banisters.  She  too  comes  running  down, 
a  frank  figure,  with  the  face  of  a  rebel. 


sc.  i  THE  ELDEST  SON  7 

Dor.  You  little  being  ! 

JOAN.  [Flying  towards  the  drawing-room,  is  overtaken 
at  the  door]  Oh!  Dot!  You're  pinching! 

As  they  disappear  into  the  drawing-room,  MA- 
BEL LANFARNE,  a  tall  girl  with  a  rather  charm- 
ing Irish  face,  comes  slowly  down.  And  at  sight 
of  her  FREDA'S  whole  figure  becomes  set  and 
meaning-full. 

FREDA.  For  you,  Miss  Lanfarne,  from  my  lady. 
MABEL.  [In  whose  speech  is  a  touch  of  wilful  Irishry] 
How  sweet!    [Fastening  the  roses]  And  how  are  you, 
Freda? 

FREDA.  Very  well,  thank  you. 

MABEL.  And  your  father?    Hope  he's  going  to  let 
me  come  out  with  the  guns  again. 

FREDA.  [Stolidly]  He'll  be  delighted,  I'm  sure. 
MABEL.  Ye-es!     I  haven't  forgotten  his  face — last 
time. 

FREDA.  You  stood  with  Mr.  Bill.     He's  better  to 
stand  with  than  Mr.  Harold,  or  Captain  Keith? 
MABEL.  He  didn't  touch  a  feather,  that  day. 
FREDA.  People  don't  when  they're  anxious  to  do  their 
best. 

A  gong  sounds.  And  MABEL  LANFARNE,  giving 
FREDA  a  rather  inquisitive  stare,  moves  on  to  the 
drawing-room.  Left  alone  without  the  roses, 
FREDA  still  lingers.  At  the  slamming  of  a  door 
above,  and  hasty  footsteps,  she  shrinks  back 
against  the  stairs.  BILL  runs  down,  and  comes 
on  her  suddenly.  He  is  a  tall,  good-looking 


8  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  i 

edition  of  his  father,  with  the  same  stubborn 
look  of  veiled  choler. 

BILL.  Freda!  [And  as  she  shrinks  still  further  back] 
What's  the  matter  ?  [Then  at  some  sound  he  looks  round 
uneasily  and  draws  away  from  her]  Aren't  you  glad  to 
see  me? 

FREDA.  I've  something  to  say  to  you,  Mr.  Bill. 
After  dinner. 

BILL.  Mister ? 

She  passes  him,  and  rushes  away  upstairs.  And 
BILL,  who  stands  frowning  and  looking  after 
her,  recovers  himself  sharply  as  the  drawing- 
room  door  is  opened,  and  SIR  WILLIAM  and 
Miss  LANFARNE  come  forth,  followed  by 
KEITH,  DOT,  HAROLD,  CHRISTINE,  LATTER, 
and  JOAN,  all  leaning  across  each  other,  and 
talking.  By  herself,  behind  them,  comes  LADY 
CHESHIRE,  a  refined-looking  woman  of  fifty, 
with  silvery  dark  hair,  and  an  expression  at 
once  gentle,  and  ironic.  They  move  across  the 
hall  towards  the  dining-room. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Ah!  Bill. 

MABEL.  How  do  you  do  ? 

KEITH.  How  are  you,  old  chap  ? 

Dor.  [gloomily]  Do  you  know  your  part  ? 

HAROLD.  Hallo,  old  man! 

CHRISTINE  gives  her  brother  a  flying  kiss.  JOAN 
and  LATTER  pause  and  look  at  him  shyly  with' 
out  speech. 


sc.  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  9 

BILL.  [Putting  his  hand  on  JOAN'S  shoulder]  Good 
luck,  you  two!    Well  mother? 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Well,  my  dear  boy!    Nice  to  see 
you  at  last.     What  a  long  time! 

She  draws  his  arm  through  hers,  and  they  move 
towards  the  dining-room. 

The  curtain  falls. 
The  curtain  rises  again  at  once. 


SCENE  II 

CHRISTINE,  LADY  CHESHIRE,  DOT,  MABEL  LANFARNE, 
and  JOAN,  are  returning  to  the  hall  offer  dinner. 

CHRISTINE,  [in  a  low  voice]  Mother,  is  it  true  about 
young  Dunning  and  Rose  Taylor? 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  I'm  afraid  so,  dear. 

CHRISTINE.  But  can't  they  be 

DOT.  Ah!   ah-h!   [CHRISTINE   and   her   mother  are 
silent.]  My  child,  I'm  not  the  young  person. 

CHRISTINE.  No,  of  course  not — only — [nodding  to- 
wards JOAN  and  Mabel\. 

DOT.  Look  here!   This  is  just  an  instance  of  what  I 
hate. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  My  dear  ?    Another  one  ? 

DOT.  Yes,  mother,  and  don't  you  pretend  you  don't 
understand,  because  you  know  you  do. 

CHRISTINE.  Instance  ?    Of  what  ? 

JOAN  and  MABEL  have  ceased  talking,  and  listen, 
still  at  the  fire. 


10  THE   ELDEST  SON  ACT  i 

Dor.  Humbug,  of  course.  Why  should  you  want 
them  to  marry,  if  he's  tired  of  her? 

CHRISTINE.  [Ironically]  Well!  If  your  imagination 
doesn't  carry  you  as  far  as  that! 

DOT.  When  people  marry,  do  you  believe  they  ought 
to  be  in  love  with  each  other? 

CHRISTINE.  [With  a  shrug]  That's  not  the  point. 

DOT.  Oh  ?    Were  you  in  love  with  Ronny  ? 

CHRISTINE.  Don't  be  idiotic! 

DOT.  Would  you  have  married  him  if  you  hadn't 
been? 

CHRISTINE.  Of  course  not! 

JOAN.  Dot!    You  are! 

DOT.  Hallo!  my  little  snipe! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Dot,  dear! 

Dor.  Don't  shut  me  up,  mother!  [To  JOAN.]  Are 
you  in  love  with  John?  [JoAN  turns  hurriedly  to  the 
fire.]  Would  you  be  going  to  marry  him  if  you  were 
not? 

CHRISTINE.  You  are  a  brute,  Dot. 

DOT.  Is  Mabel  in  love  with — whoever  she  is  in  love 
with  ? 

MABEL.  And  I  wonder  who  that  is. 

Dor.  Well,  would  you  marry  him  if  you  weren't  ? 

MABEL.  No,  I  would  not. 

DOT.  Now,  mother;  did  you  love  father? 

CHRISTINE.  Dot,  you  really  are  awful. 

Dor.  [Rueful  and  detached]  Well,  it  is  a  bit  too  thick, 
perhaps. 

JOAN.  Dot! 


sc.  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  11 

Dor.  Well,  mother,  did  you — I  mean  quite  calmly  ? 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Yes,  dear,  quite  calmly. 

DOT.  Would  you  have  married  him  if  you  hadn't  ? 
[LADY  CHESHIRE  shakes  her  head]  Then  we're  all 
agreed ! 

MABEL.  Except  yourself. 

DOT.  [Grimly]  Even  if  I  loved  him,  he  might  think 
himself  lucky  if  I  married  him. 

MABEL.  Indeed,  and  I'm  not  so  sure. 

DOT.  [Making  a  face  at  her]  What  I  was  going  to 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  But  don't  you  think,  dear,  you'd 
better  not  ? 

DOT.  Well,  I  won't  say  what  I  was  going  to  say,  but 
what  I  do  say  is — Why  the  devil 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Quite  so,  Dot! 

DOT.  [/I  little  disconcerted.]  If  they're  tired  of  each 
other,  they  ought  not  to  marry,  and  if  father's  going  to 
make  them 

CHRISTINE.  You  don't  understand  in  the  least.  It's 
for  the  sake  of  the 

Dor.  Out  with  it,  Old  Sweetness!  The  approaching 
infant!  God  bless  it! 

There  is  a  sudden  silence,  for  KEITH  and  LATTER 
are  seen  coming  from  the  dining-room. 

LATTER.  That  must  be  so,  Ronny. 

KEITH.  No,  John;  not  a  bit  of  it! 

LATTER.  You  don't  think ! 

KEITH.  Good  Gad,  who  wants  to  think  after  dinner! 

DOT.  Come  on!  Let's  play  pool.  [She  turns  at  the 
billiard-room  door.]  Look  here!  Rehearsal  to-morrow  is 


12  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT! 

directly  after  breakfast;   from  "Eccles  enters  breath- 
less" to  the  end. 

MABEL.  Whatever  made  you  choose  "  Caste,"  Dot  ? 
You  know  it's  awfully  difficult. 

Dor.  Because  it's  the  only  play  that's  not  too  ad- 
vanced. [The  girls  all  go  into  the  billiard-room. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Where's  Bill,  Ronny? 

KEITH.  [With  a  grimace]  I  rather  think  Sir  William 
and  he  are  in  Committee  of  Supply — Mem-Sahib. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Oh! 

She  looks  uneasily  at  the  dining-room!  then  fob 
Imvs  the  girls  old. 

LATTER.  [In  the  tone  of  one  resuming  an  argument] 
There  can't  be  two  opinions  about  it,  Ronny.  Young 
Dunning's  refusal  is  simply  indefensible. 

KEITH.  I  don't  agree  a  bit,  John. 

LATTER.  Of  course,  if  you  won't  listen. 

KEITH.  [Clipping  a  cigar]  Draw  it  mild,  my  dear 
chap.  We've  had  the  whole  thing  over  twice  at  least. 

LATTER.  My  point  is  this 

KEITH.  [Regarding  LATTER  quizzically  with  his  half- 
closed  eyes]  I  know — I  know — but  the  point  is,  how  far 
your  point  is  simply  professional. 

LATTER.  If  a  man  wrongs  a  woman,  he  ought  to  righ 
her  again.    There's  no  answer  to  that. 

KEITH.  It  all  depends. 

LATTER.  That's  rank  opportunism. 

KEITH.  Rats!  Look  here — Oh!  hang  it,  John,  one 
can't  argue  this  out  with  a  parson. 

LATTER.  [Frigidly]  Why  not  ? 


sc.  ii  THE  ELDEST  SON  13 

HAROLD.  [Who  has  entered  from  the  dining-room] 
Pull  devil,  pull  baker! 

KEITH.  Shut  up,  Harold! 

LATTER.  "To  play  the  game"  is  the  religion  even  of 
the  Army. 

KEITH.  Exactly,  but  what  is  the  game  ? 

LATTER.  What  else  can  it  be  in  this  case? 

KEITH.  You're  too  puritanical,  young  John.  You 
can't  help  it — line  of  country  laid  down  for  you.  All 
drag-huntin'!  What! 

LATTER.  [With  concentration]  Look  here! 

HAROLD.  [Imitating  the  action  of  a  man  pulling  at  a 
horse's  head]  'Come  hup,  I  say,  you  hugly  beast!' 

KEITH.  [To  LATTER]  You're  not  going  to  draw  me, 
old  chap.  You  don't  see  where  you'd  land  us  all.  [He 
smokes  calmly] 

LATTER.  How  do  you  imagine  vice  takes  its  rise? 
From  precisely  this  sort  of  thing  of  young  Dunning's. 

KEITH.  From  human  nature,  I  should  have  thought, 
John.  I  admit  that  I  don't  like  a  fellow's  leavin*  a  girl 
in  the  lurch;  but  I  don't  see  the  use  in  drawin*  hard  and 
fast  rules.  You  only  have  to  break  'em.  Sir  William 
and  you  would  just  tie  Dunning  and  the  girl  up  together, 
willy-nilly,  to  save  appearances,  and  ten  to  one  but 
there'll  be  the  deuce  to  pay  in  a  year's  time.  You  can 
take  a  horse  to  the  water,  you  can't  make  him  drink. 

LATTER.  I  entirely  and  absolutely  disagree  with  you. 

HAROLD.  Good  old  John! 

LATTER.  At  all  events  we  know  where  your  princi- 
ples take  you. 


14  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  i 

KEITH.  [Rather dangerously]  Where,  please?  [HAROLD 
turns  up  his  eyes,  and  points  downwards]  Dry  up, 
Harold! 

LATTER.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  Faust? 
KEITH.  Now  look  here,  John;   with  all  due  respect 
to  your  cloth,  and  all  the  politeness  in  the  world,  you 
may  go  to — blazes. 

LATTER.  Well,  I  must  say,  Ronny — of  all  the  rude 

boors [He  turns  towards  the  billiard-room. 

KEITH.  Sorry  I  smashed  the  glass,  old  chap. 

LATTER  passes  out.  There  comes  a  mingled  sound 
through  the  opened  door,  of  female  voices,  laugh- 
ter, and  the  click  of  billiard  balls,  clipped  off  by 
the  sudden  closing  of  the  door. 

KEITH.  [Impersonally]  Deuced  odd,  the  way  a  par- 
son puts  one's  back  up!  Because  you  know  I  agree 
with  him  really;  young  Dunning  ought  to  play  the 
game;  and  I  hope  Sir  William '11  make  him. 

The  butler  JACKSON  has  entered  from  the  door 
under  the  stairs  followed  by  the  keeper  STUD- 
DENHAM,  a  man  beticeen  fifty  and  sixty,  in  a 
full-skirted  coat  with  big  pockets,  cord  breechea, 
and  gaiters;  he  has  a  steady  self-respecting  weath- 
ered face,  with  blue  eyes  and  a  short  grey  beard, 
which  has  obviously  once  been  red. 
KEITH.  Hullo!  Studdenham! 

STTJDDENHAM.  [Touching  his  forehead]  Evenin', 
Captain  Keith. 

JACKSON.  Sir  William  still  in  the  dining-room  with 
Mr.  Bill,  sir? 


sc.  ii  THE  ELDEST  SON  15 

HAROLD.  [With  a  grimace]  He  is,  Jackson. 

JACKSON  goes  out  to  the  dining-room. 

KEITH.  You've  shot  no  pheasants  yet,  Studdenham  ? 

STUDDENHAM.  No,  sir.  Only  birds.  We'll  be  doin' 
the  spinneys  and  the  home  covert  while  you're  down. 

KEITH.  I  say,  talkin*  of  spinneys 

He  breaks  off  sharply,  and  goes  out  with  HAROLD 
into  the  billiard-room.  SIR  WILLIAM  enters 
from  the  dining-room,  applying  a  gold  tooth- 
pick to  his  front  teeth. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Ah!  Studdenham.  Bad  business  this, 
about  young  Dunning! 

STUDDENHAM.  Yes,  Sir  William. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  He  definitely  refuses  to  marry  her? 

STUDDENHAM.  He  does  that. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  That  won't  do,  you  know.  What  rea- 
son does  he  give? 

STUDDENHAM.  Won't  say  other  than  that  he  don't 
want  no  more  to  do  with  her. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  God  bless  me!  That's  not  a  reason. 
I  can't  have  a  keeper  of  mine  playing  fast  and  loose  in 
the  village  like  this.  [Turning  to  LADY  CHESHIRE,  who 
has  come  in  from  the  billiard-room]  That  affair  of  young 
Dunning's,  my  dear. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Oh!  Yes!  I'm  so  sorry,  Studden- 
ham. The  poor  girl! 

STUDDENHAM.  [Respectfully]  Fancy  he's  got  a  feeling 
she's  not  his  equal,  now,  my  lady. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [To  herself]  Yes,  I  suppose  he  has 
made  her  his  superior. 


16  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  i 

SIR  WILLIAM.  What?  Eh!  Quite!  Quite!  I  was 
just  telling  Studdenham  the  fellow  must  set  the  matter 
straight.  We  can't  have  open  scandals  in  the  village. 
If  he  wants  to  keep  his  place  he  must  marry  her  at 
once. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [To  her  husband  in  a  low  voice]  Is 
it  right  to  force  them?  Do  you  know  what  the  girl 
wishes,  Studdenham? 

STUDDENHAM.  Shows  a  spirit,  my  lady — says  she'U 
have  him — willin'  or  not. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  A  spirit  ?  I  see.  If  they  marry  like 
that  they're  sure  to  be  miserable. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  What!  Doesn't  follow  at  all.  Besides, 
my  dear,  you  ought  to  know  by  this  time,  there's  an  un- 
written law  in  these  matters.  They're  perfectly  well 
aware  that  when  there  are  consequences,  they  have  to 
take  them. 

STUDDENHAM.  Some  o*  these  young  people,  my  lady, 
they  don't  put  two  and  two  together  no  more  than  an 
old  cock  pheasant. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I'll  give  him  till  to-morrow.  If  he  re- 
mains obstinate,  he'll  have  to  go;  he'll  get  no  character, 
Studdenham.  Let  him  know  what  I've  said.  I  like 
the  fellow,  he's  a  good  keeper.  I  don't  want  to  lose 
him.  But  this  sort  of  thing  I  won't  have.  He  must  toe 
the  mark  or  take  himself  off.  Is  he  up  here  to-night  ? 

STUDDENHAM.  Hangin'  partridges,  Sir  William.  Will 
you  have  him  in  ? 

Sir.  WILLIAM.  [Hesitating]  Yes — yes.     I'll  see  him. 

STUDDENHAM.  Good-night  to  you,  my  lady. 


sc.  u  THE  ELDEST  SON  17 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Freda's  not  looking  well,  Studden- 
ham. 

STUDDENHAM.  She's  a  bit  pernickitty  with  her  food, 
that's  where  it  is. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  I  must  try  and  make  her  eat. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Oh!  Studdenham.  We'll  shoot  the 
home  covert  first.  What  did  we  get  last  year  ? 

STUDDENHAM.  [Producing  the  game-book;  but  with- 
out reference  to  it]  Two  hundred  and  fifty-three  pheas- 
ants, eleven  hares,  fifty-two  rabbits,  three  woodcock, 
sundry. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Sundry  ?  Didn't  include  a  fox  did  it  ? 
[Gravely]  I  was  seriously  upset  this  morning  at  Warn- 
ham's  spinney 

STUDDENHAM.  [Very  gravely]  You  don't  say,  Sir 
William;  that  four-year-old  he  du  look  a  handful! 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [With  a  sharp  look]  You  know  well 
enough  what  I  mean. 

STUDDENHAM.  [Unmoved]  Shall  I  send  young  Dun- 
ning, Sir  William  ? 

SIR  WILLIAM  gives  a  short,  sharp  nod,  and  STUD- 
DENHAM retires  by  the  door  under  the  stairs. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Old  fox! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Don't  be  too  hard  on  Dunning. 
He's  very  young. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [Patting  her  arm]  My  dear,  you  don't 
understand  young  fellows,  how  should  you  ? 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [With  her  faint  irony]  A  husband 
and  two  sons  not  counting.  [Then  as  the  door  under 
the  stairs  is  opened]  Bill,  now  do 


18  THE   ELDEST  SON  ACT  i 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I'll  be  gentle  with  him.  [Sharply] 
Come  in! 

LADY  CHESHIRE  retires  to  the  billiard-room.  She 
gives  a  look  back  and  a  lialf  smile  at  young 
DUNNING,  a  fair  young  man  dressed  in  brown 
cords  and  leggings,  and  holding  his  cap  in  his 
hand;  then  goes  out. 

SIB  WILLIAM.  Evenin',  Dunning. 

DUNNING.  [Twisting  his  cap]  Evenin',  Sir  William. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Studdenham's  told  you  what  I  want 
to  see  you  about? 

DUNNING.  Yes,  Sir. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  The  thing's  in  your  hands.  Take  it  or 
leave  it.  I  don't  put  pressure  on  you.  I  simply  won't 
have  this  sort  of  thing  on  my  estate. 

DUNNING.  I'd  like  to  say,  Sir  William,  that  she — • 
[He  stops]. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Yes,  I  daresay — Six  of  one  and  half  a 
dozen  of  the  other.  Can't  go  into  that. 

DUNNING.  No,  Sir  William. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I'm  quite  mild  with  you.  This  is  your 
first  place.  If  you  leave  here  you'll  get  no  character. 

DUNNING.  I  never  meant  any  harm,  sir. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  My  good  fellow,  you  know  the  custom 
of  the  country. 

DUNNING.  Yes,  Sir  William,  but 

SIR  WILLIAM.  You  should  have  looked  before  you 
leaped.  I'm  not  forcing  you.  If  you  refuse  you  must 
go,  that's  all. 

DUNNING.  Yes,  Sir  William. 


sc.  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  19 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Well,  now  go  along  and  take  a  day  to 
think  it  over. 

BILL,  who  has  sauntered  moodily  from  the  dining- 
room,  stands  by  the  stairs  listening.  Catching 
sight  of  him,  DUNNING  raises  his  hand  to  his 
forelock. 

DUNNING.  Very  good,  Sir  William.  [He  turns,  fum- 
bles, and  turns  again]  My  old  mother's  dependent  on 

me 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Now,  Dunning,  I've  no  more  to  say. 

[Dunning  goes  sadly  away  under  the  stairs. 
SIR    WILLIAM.  [Following]  And    look    here!     Just 

understand  this [He  too  goes  out. 

BILL,  lighting  a  cigarette,  has  approached  the 
writing-table.     He  looks  very  glum.    The  bill- 
iard-room door  is  flung  open.     MABEL  LAN- 
FARNE  appears,  and  makes  him  a  little  curtsey. 
MABEL.  Against  my  will  I  am  bidden  to  bring  you 
in  to  pool. 

BILL.  Sorry!    I've  got  letters. 

MABEL.  You  seem  to  have  become  very  conscien- 
tious. 

BILL.  Oh!  I  don't  know. 

MABEL.  Do  you  remember  the  last  day  of  the  covert 
shooting  ? 
BILL.  I  do. 

MABEL.  [Suddenly]  What  a  pretty  girl  Freda  Stud- 
denham's  grown! 
BILL.  Has  she? 
MABEL.  "She  walks  in  beauty." 


20  THE   ELDEST   SON  ACT  i 

BILL.  Really?    Hadn't  noticed. 

MABEL.  Have  you  been  taking  lessons  in  conversa- 
tion? 

BILL.  Don't  think  so. 

MABEL.  Oh!  [There  is  a  silence]  Mr.  Cheshire! 

BILL.  Miss  Lanfarne! 

MABEL.  What's  the  matter  with  you?  Aren't  you 
rather  queer,  considering  that  I  don't  bite,  and  was 
rather  a  pal! 

BILL.  [Stolidly]  I'm  sorry. 

Then  seeing  that  his  mother  has  come  in  from  the 
billiard-room,  he  sits  down  at  the  writing-table. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Mabel,  dear,  do  take  my  cue. 
Won't  you  play  too,  Bill,  and  try  and  stop  Ronny,  he's 
too  terrible? 

BILL.  Thanks.    I've  got  these  letters. 

MABEL  taking  the  cue  passes  back  into  the  billiard- 
room,  whence  comes  out  the  sound  of  talk  and 
laughter. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Going  over  and  standing  behind 
her  son's  chair]  Anything  wrong,  darling  ? 

BILL.  Nothing,  thanks.  [Suddenly]  I  say,  I  wish  you 
hadn't  asked  that  girl  here. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Mabel!  Why?  She's  wanted  for 
rehearsals.  I  thought  you  got  on  so  well  with  her  last 
Christmas. 

BILL.  [With  a  sort  of  sullen  exasperation]  A  year  ago. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  The  girls  like  her,  so  does  your 
father;  personally  I  must  say  I  think  she's  rather  nice 
and  Irish. 


sc.  n  THE   ELDEST  SON  21 

BILL.  She's  all  right,  I  daresay. 

He  looks  round  as  if  to  show  his  mother  that  he 
wishes  to  be  left  alone.  But  LADY  CHESHIRE, 
having  seen  that  he  is  about  to  look  at  her,  is 
not  looking  at  him. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  I'm  afraid  your  father's  been  talk- 
ing to  you,  Bill. 

BILL.  He  has. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Debts  ?  Do  try  and  make  allow- 
ances. [With  a  faint  smile]  Of  course  he  is  a  little 

BILL.  He  is. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  I  wish  7  could 

BILL.  Oh,  Lord!    Don't  you  get  mixed  up  in  it! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  It  seems  almost  a  pity  that  you 
told  him. 

BILL.  He  wrote  and  asked  me  point  blank  what  I 
owed. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Oh!  [Forcing  herself  to  speak  in  a 

casiLal  voice]  I  happen  to  have  a  little  money,  Bill 

I  think  it  would  be  simpler  if 

BILL.  Now  look  here,  mother,  you've  tried  that  be- 
fore. I  can't  help  spending  money,  I  never  shall  be 
able,  unless  I  go  to  the  Colonie  ,  or  something  of  the 
kind. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Don't  talk  like  that,  dear! 

BILL.  I  would,  for  two  straws! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  It's  only  because  your  father  thinks 
such  a  lot  of  the  place,  and  the  name,  and  your  career. 
The  Cheshires  are  all  like  that.  They've  been  here  so 
long;  they're  all — root. 


2t  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  i 

BILL.  Deuced  funny  business  my  career  will  be,  I 
expect! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Fluttering,  but  restraining  her  ml/ 
lest  he  should  see]  But,  Bill,  why  must  you  spend  more 
than  your  allowance  ? 

BILL.  Why — anything?     I  didn't  make  myself. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  I'm  afraid  we  did  that.     It  was  in- 
considerate,  perhaps. 

BILL.  Yes,  you'd  better  have  left  me  out. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  But  why  are  you  so —    Only  a 
little  fuss  about  money! 
BILL.  Ye-es. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  You're  not  keeping  anything  from 
me,  are  you  ? 

BILL.  [Facing  her]  No.  [He  then  turns  very  deliber- 
ately to  the  writing  things,  and  takes  up  a  pen]  I  must 
write  these  letters,  please. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Bill,  if  there's  any  real  trouble,  you 
will  tell  me,  won't  you  ? 

BILL.  There's  nothing  whatever. 

He  suddenly  gets  up  and  walks  about. 
LADY  CHESHIRE,  too,  moves  over  to  the  fireplace, 
and  after  an  uneasy  look  at  him,  turns  to  the 
Jire.     Then,  as  if  trying  to  switch  off' his  mood, 
she  changes  the  subject  abruptly. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  Isn't  it  a  pity  about  young  Dun- 
ning?   I'm  so  sorry  for  Rose  Taylor. 

There  is  a  silence.  Stealthily  under  the  staircase 
FREDA  has  entered,  and  seeing  only  BILL,  ad- 
vances to  speak  to  him. 


sc.  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  23 

BILL.  [Suddenly]  Oh!  well,  you  can't  help  these 
things  in  the  country. 

As  he  speaks,  FREDA  stops  dead,  perceiving  that 
he  is  not  alone;  BILL,  too,  catching  sight  of  her, 
starts. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Still  speaking  to  thejtre]  It  seems 
dreadful  to  force  him.     I  do  so  believe  in  people  doing 
things  of  their  own  accord.     [Then  seeing  FREDA  stand- 
ing so  uncertainly  by  the  stairs]  Do  you  want  me,  Freda  ? 
FREDA.  Only  your  cloak,  my  lady.  Shall  I — begin  it  ? 
At  this  moment  SIR  WILLIAM  enters  from  the 

drawing-room. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  Yes,  yes. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [Genially]  Can  you  give  me  another 
five  minutes,  Bill  ?  [Pointing  to  the  billiard-room]  We'll 
come  directly,  my  dear. 

FREDA,  with  a  look  at  BILL,  has  gone  back  whence 
she  came;  and  LADY  CHESHIRE  goes  reluctantly 
away  into  the  billiard-room. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I  shall  give  young  Dunning  short 
shrift.  [He  moves  over  to  the  Jireplace  and  divides  his 
coat-tails]  Now,  about  you,  Bill!  I  don't  want  to  bully 
you  the  moment  you  come  down,  but  you  know,  this 
can't  go  on.  I've  paid  your  debts  twice.  Shan't  pay 
them  this  time  unless  I  see  a  disposition  to  change  your 
mode  of  life.  [.4  pause]  You  get  your  extravagance 
from  your  mother.  She's  very  queer — [A  pause] — All 
the  Winterleghs  are  like  that  about  money. 

BILL.  Mother's  particularly  generous,  if  that's  what 
you  mean. 


24  THE   ELDEST  SON  ACT  i 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [Drily]  We  will  put  it  that  way.  [A 
pause]  At  the  present  moment  you  owe,  as  I  under- 
stand it,  eleven  hundred  pounds. 

BILL.  About  that. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Mere  flea-bite.  [A  pause]  I've  a  prop- 
osition to  make. 

BILL.  Won't  it  do  to-morrow,  sir? 

SIR  WILLIAM.  "To-morrow"  appears  to  be  your 
motto  in  life. 

BILL.  Thanks! 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I'm  anxious  to  change  it  to-day.  [BILL 
looks  at  him  in  silence]  It's  time  you  took  your  position 
seriously,  instead  of  hanging  about  town,  racing,  and 
playing  polo,  and  what  not. 

BILL.  Go  ahead! 

At  something  dangerous  in  his  voice,  SIR  WILLIAM 
modijies  his  attitude. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  The  proposition's  very  simple.  I  can't 
suppose  anything  so  rational  and  to  your  advantage  will 
appeal  to  you,  but  [drily]  I  mention  it.  Marry  a  nice 
girl,  settle  down,  and  stand  for  the  division;  you  can 
have  the  Dower  House  and  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  and 
I'll  pay  your  debts  into  the  bargain.  If  you're  elected 
I'll  make  it  two  thousand.  Plenty  of  time  to  work  up 
the  constituency  before  we  kick  out  these  infernal  Rads. 
Carpet-bagger  against  you;  if  you  go  hard  at  it  in  the 
summer,  it'll  be  odd  if  you  don't  manage  to  get  in  your 
three  days  a  week,  next  season.  You  can  take  Rocketer 
and  that  four-year-old — he's  well  up  to  your  weight, 


sc.  ii  THE  ELDEST  SON  35 

fully  eight  and  a  half  inches  of  bone.  You'll  only  want 
one  other.  And  if  Miss — if  your  wife  means  to  hunt 

BILL.  You've  chosen  my  wife,  then  ? 

SIB  WILLIAM.  [With  a  quick  look]  I  imagine,  you've 
some  girl  in  your  mind. 

BILL.  Ah! 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Used  not  to  be  unnatural  at  your  age. 
I  married  your  mother  at  twenty-eight.  Here  you  are, 
eldest  son  of  a  family  that  stands  for  something.  The 
more  I  see  of  the  times  the  more  I'm  convinced  that 
everybody  who  is  anybody  has  got  to  buckle  to,  and  save 
the  landmarks  left.  Unless  we're  true  to  our  caste,  and 
prepared  to  work  for  it,  the  landed  classes  are  going  to 
go  under  to  this  infernal  democratic  spirit  in  the  air. 
The  outlook's  very  serious.  We're  threatened  in  a  hun- 
dred ways.  If  you  mean  business,  you'll  want  a  wife. 
When  I  came  into  the  property  I  should  have  been  lost 
without  your  mother. 

BILL.  I  thought  this  was  coming. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [With  a  certain  genialty]  My  dear 
fellow,  I  don't  want  to  put  a  pistol  to  your  head.  You've 
had  a  slack  rein  so  far.  I've  never  objected  to  your 
sowing  a  few  wild  oats — so  long  as  you — er — [Unseen 
by  SIR  WILLIAM,  BILL  makes  a  sudden  movement]  Short 
of  that — at  all  events,  I've  not  inquired  into  your  affairs. 
I  can  only  judge  by  the — er — pecuniary  evidence  you've 
been  good  enough  to  afford  me  from  time  to  time.  I 
imagine  you've  lived  like  a  good  many  young  men  in 
your  position — I'm  not  blaming  you,  but  there's  a  time 
for  all  things. 


26  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  i 

BILL.  Why  don't  you  say  outright  that  you  want  me 
to  marry  Mabel  Lanfarne? 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Well,  I  do.  Girl's  a  nice  one.  Good 
family — got  a  little  money — rides  well.  Isn't  she  good- 
looking  enough  for  you,  or  what  ? 

BILL.  Quite,  thanks. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I  understood  from  your  mother  that 
you  and  she  were  on  good  terms. 

BILL.  Please  don't  drag  mother  into  it. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [With  dangerous  politeness]  Perhaps 
you'll  be  good  enough  to  state  your  objections. 

BILL.  Must  we  go  on  with  this  ? 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I've  never  asked  you  to  do  anything 
for  me  before;  I  expect  you  to  pay  attention  now.  I've 
no  wish  to  dragoon  you  into  this  particular  marriage. 
If  you  don't  care  for  Miss  Lanfarne,  marry  a  girl  you're 
fond  of. 

BILL.  I  refuse. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  In  that  case  you  know  what  to  look 
out  for.  [With  a  sudden  rush  ofcholcr]  You  young  .  .  . 
[He  checks  himself  and  stands  glaring  at  BILL,  who 
glares  back  at  him]  This  means,  I  suppose,  that  you've 
got  some  entanglement  or  other. 

BILL.  Suppose  what  you  like,  sir. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I  warn  you,  if  you  play  the  black- 
guard  

BILL.  You  can't  force  me  like  young  Dunning. 

Hearing  the  raised  voices  LADY  CHESHIRE  has 
come  back  from  the  billiard-room. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Closing  the  door]  What  is  it? 


sc.  ii  THE  ELDEST  SON  27 

SIR  WILLIAM.  You  deliberately  refuse!    Go  away, 
Dorothy. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Resolutely]  I  haven't  seen  Bill  for 
two  months. 

SIR    WILLIAM.  What!  [Hesitating]  Well — we    must 
talk  it  over  again. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Come  to  the  billiard-room,  both  of 
you!    Bill,  do  finish  those  letters! 

With  a  deft  movement  she  draws  SIR  WILLIAM 
toward  the  billiard-room,  and  glances  back  at 
BILL  before  going  out,  but  he  has  turned  to  the 
writing-table.  When  the  door  is  closed,  BILL 
looks  into  trie  drawing-room,  then  opens  the  door 
under  the  stairs;  and  backing  away  towards  the 
writing-table,  sits  down  there,  and  takes  up  a 
pen.  FREDA  who  has  evidently  been  waiting, 
comes  in  and  stands  by  the  table. 
BILL.  I  say,  this  is  dangerous,  you  know. 
FREDA.  Yes — but  I  must. 

BILL.  Well,  then — [With  natural  recklessness]  Aren't 
you  going  to  kiss  me  ? 

Without  moving  she  looks  at  him  with  a  sort  of 

miserable  inquiry. 

BILL.  Do  you  know  you  haven't  seen  me  for  eight 
weeks  ? 

FREDA.  Quite — long  enough — for  you  to  have  forgot- 
ten. 

BILL.  Forgotten!    I  don't  forget  people  so  soon. 

FREDA.  No? 

BILL.  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Freda  ? 


28  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  i 

FREDA.  [After  a  long  look]  It'll  never  be  as  it  was. 

BILL.  [Jumping  up]  How  d'you  mean  ? 

FREDA.  I've  got  something  for  you.  [She  takes  a 
diamond  ring  out  of  her  dress  and  holds  it  out  to  him] 
I've  not  worn  it  since  Cromer. 

BILL.  Now,  look  here 

FREDA.  I've  had  my  holiday;  I  shan't  get  another  in 
a  hurry. 

BILL.  Freda! 

FREDA.  You'll  be  glad  to  be  free.  That  fortnight's 
all  you  really  loved  me  in. 

BILL.  [Putting  his  hands  on  her  arms]  I  swear 

FREDA.  [Between  her  teeth]  Miss  Lanfarne  need  never 
know  about  me. 

BILL.  So  that's  it!  I've  told  you  a  dozen  times — 
nothing's  changed.  [FREDA  looks  at  him  and  smiles. 

BILL.  Oh!  very  well!  If  you  will  make  yourself 
miserable. 

FREDA.  Everybody  will  be  pleased. 

BILL.  At  what? 

FREDA.  When  you  marry  her. 

BILL.  This  is  too  bad. 

FREDA.  It's  What  always  happens — even  when  it's  not 
a  gentleman. 

BILL.  That's  enough. 

FREDA.  But  I'm  not  like  that  girl  down  in  the  village. 
You  needn't  be  afraid  I'll  say  anything  when — it  comes. 
That's  what  I  had  to  tell  you. 

BILL.  Whatl 

FREDA.  7  can  keep  a  secret. 


sc.  H  THE  ELDEST  SON  29 

BILL.  Do  you  mean  this  ?  [She  bows  her  head. 

BILL.  Good  God! 

FREDA.  Father  brought  me  up  not  to  whine.  Like 
the  puppies  when  they  hold  them  up  by  their  tails. 
[With  a  sudden  break  in  her  voice]  Oh!  Bill! 

BILL.  [With  his  head  down,  seizing  her  hands]  Freda! 
[He  breaks  away  from  her  towards  the  fire]  Good  God! 
She  stands  looking  at  him,  then  quietly  slips  away 
by  the  door  under  the  staircase.     BILL  turns  to 
speak  to  her,  and  sees  that  she  has  gone.     Pie 
walks  up  to  the  fireplace,  and  grips  the  mantel- 
piece. 
BILL.  By  Jove!    This  is ! 

The  curtain  falls. 


ACT  II 

The  scene  is  LADY  CHESHIRE'S  morning  room,  at  ten 
'  o'clock  on  the  following  day.  It  is  a  pretty  room, 
with  white  panelled  walls;  and  chrysanthemums  and 
carmine  lilies  in  bowls.  A  large  bow  window  over- 
looks the  park  under  a  sou' -westerly  sky.  A  piano 
stands  open;  afire  is  burning;  and  the  morning's 
correspondence  is  scattered  on  a  writing -table.  Doors 
opposite  each  other  lead  to  the  maid's  workroom,  and 
to  a  corridor.  LADY  CHESHIRE  is  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  looking  at  an  opera  cloak,  which 
FREDA  is  holding  out. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Well,  Freda,  suppose  you  just  give 
it  up! 

FREDA.  I  don't  like  to  be  beaten. 
LADY   CHESHIRE.  You're  not  to  worry  over  your 
work.     And  by  the  way,  I  promised  your  father  to 
make  you  eat  more.  [FREDA  smiles. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  It's  all  very  well  to  smile.  You 
want  bracing  up.  Now  don't  be  naughty.  I  shall 
give  you  a  tonic.  And  I  think  you  had  better  put  that 
cloak  away. 

FREDA.  I'd  rather  have  one  more  try,  my  lady. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Sitting  down  at  her  writing-table] 
Very  well. 

FREDA  goes  out  into  her  workroom,  as  JACKSON 
comes  in  from  the  corridor. 
31 


32  THE   ELDEST  SON  ACT  n 

JACKSON.  Excuse  me,  my  lady.  There's  a  young 
woman  from  the  village,  says  you  wanted  to  see  her. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Rose  Taylor?  Ask  her  to  come 
in  Oh!  and  Jackson  the  car  for  the  meet  please  at 
half-past  ten. 

JACKSON  having  bowed  and  withdrawn,  LADY 
CHESHIRE  rises  with  marked  signs  of  nervous- 
ness, which  she  has  only  just  suppressed,  when 
ROSE  TAYLOR,  a  stolid  country  girl,  comes  in 
and  stands  waiting  by  the  door. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  Well,  Rose.  Do  come  in! 

[RosE  advances  perhaps  a  couple  of  steps. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  I  just  wondered  whether  you'd  like 
to  ask  my  advice.    Your  engagement  with  Dunning's 
broken  off,  isn't  it  ? 

ROSE.  Yes — but  I've  told  him  he's  got  to  marry  me. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  I  see!    And  you  think  that'll  be 
the  wisest  thing? 

ROSE.  [Stolidly]  I  don't  know,  my  lady.     He's  got  to. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  I  do  hope  you're  a  little  fond  of 
him  still. 

ROSE.  I'm  not.    He  don't  deserve  it. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  And — do  you  think  he's  quite  lost 
his  affection  for  you  ? 

ROSE.  I  suppose  so,  else  he  wouldn't  treat  me  as  he's 
done.  He's  after  that — that — He  didn't  ought  to  treat 
me  as  if  I  was  dead. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  No,  no — of  course.  But  you  will 
think  it  all  well  over,  won't  you  ? 


ACTH  THE  ELDEST  SON  33 

ROSE.  I've  a-got  nothing  to  think  over,  except  what 
I  know  of. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  But  for  you  both  to  marry  in  that 
spirit!  You  know  it's  for  life,  Rose.  [Looking  into  her 
face]  I'm  always  ready  to  help  you. 

ROSE.  [Dropping  a  very  slight  curtsey]  Thank  you, 
my  lady,  but  I  think  he  ought  to  marry  me.  I've  told 
him  he  ought. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Sighing]  Well,  that's  all  I  wanted 
to  say.  It's  a  question  of  your  self-respect;  I  can't  give 
you  any  real  advice.  But  just  remember  that  if  you 
want  a  friend 

ROSE.  [With  a  gulp]  I'm  not  so  'ard,  really.  I  only 
want  him  to  do  what's  right  by  me. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [With  a  little  lift  of  her  eyebrows — • 
gently]  Yes,  yes — I  see. 

ROSE.  [Glancing  back  at  the  door]  I  don't  like  meet- 
ing the  servants. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Come  along,  I'll  take  you  out 
another  way.  [As  they  reach  the  door,  DOT  comes  in. 

DOT.  [With  a  glance  at  ROSE]  Can  we  have  this  room 
for  the  mouldy  rehearsal,  Mother  ? 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Yes,  dear,  you  can  air  it  here. 

Holding  the  door  open  for  ROSE  she  follows  her 
out.  And  DOT,  with  a  book  of  "Caste"  in 
her  hand,  arranges  the  room  according  to  a 
diagram. 

DOT.  Chair — chair — table — chair — Dash!  Table — 
piano — fire — window!  [Producing  a  pocket  comb]  Comb 
for  Eccles.  Cradle  ? — Cradle — [She  viciously  dumps  a 


34  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  n 

waste-paper  basket  down,  and  drops  a  footstool  into  il] 
Brat!  [Then  reading  from  the  book  gloomily]  "Enter 
Eccles  breathless.  Esther  and  Polly  rise — Esther  puts 
on  lid  of  bandbox."  Bandbox! 

Searching  for  something  to  represent  a  bandbox, 
she  opens  the  workroom  door. 

Dor.  Freda? 

FREDA  comes  in. 

Dor.  I  say,  Freda.  Anything  the  matter?  You 
seem  awfully  down.  [FREDA  does  not  answer. 

DOT.  You  haven't  looked  anything  of  a  lollipop 
lately. 

FREDA.  I'm  quite  all  right,  thank  you,  Miss  Dot. 

Dor.  Has  Mother  been  givin'  you  a  tonic  ? 

FREDA.  [Smiling  a  little]  Not  yet. 

DOT.  That  doesn't  account  for  it  then.  [With  a 
sudden  warm  impulse]  What  is  it,  Freda  ? 

FREDA.  Nothing. 

DOT.  [Switching  off  on  a  different  line  of  thought] 
Are  you  very  busy  this  morning? 

FREDA.  Only  this  cloak  for  my  lady. 

DOT.  Oh!  that  can  wait.  I  may  have  to  get  you  in 
to  prompt,  if  I  can't  keep  'em  straight.  [Gloomily]  They 
stray  so.  Would  you  mind  ? 

FREDA.  [Stolidly]  I  shall  be  very  glad,  Miss  Dot. 

DOT.  [Eyeing  her  dubiously]  All  right.  Let's  see— 
what  did  I  want  ? 

JOAN  has  come  in. 

JOAN.  Look  here,  Dot;  about  the  baby  in  this  scene, 
I'm  sure  I  ought  to  make  more  of  it. 


ACT  ii  THE   ELDEST  SON  35 

Dor.  Romantic  little  beast!  [She  plucks  the  footstool 
out  by  one  ear,  and  holds  it  forth]  Let's  see  you  try! 

JOAN.  [Recoiling]  But,  Dot,  what  are  we  really  going 
to  have  for  the  baby  ?  I  can't  rehearse  with  that  thing. 
Can't  you  suggest  something,  Freda  ? 

FREDA.  Borrow  a  real  one,  Miss  Joan.    There  are 
some  that  don't  count  much. 
JOAN.  Freda,  how  horrible! 

Dor.  [Dropping  the  footstool  back  into  the  basket] 
You'll  just  put  up  with  what  you're  given. 

Then  as  CHRISTINE  and  MABEL  LANFARNE  come 

in,  FREDA  turns  abruptly  and  goes  out. 
DOT.  Buck  up!    Where  are  Bill  and  Harold?  [To 
JOAN]  Go  and  find  them,  mouse-cat. 

But  BILL  and  HAROLD,  followed  by  LATTER,  are 
already  in  the  doorway.     They  come  in,  and 
LATTER,  stumbling  over  the  waste-paper  baskett 
takes  it  up  to  improve  its  position. 
DOT.  Drop  that  cradle,  John!  [As  he  picks  the  foot- 
stool out  of  it]  Leave  the  baby  in!    Now  then!     Bill, 
you  enter  there!  [She  points  to  the  workroom  door  where 
BILL  and  MABEL  range  themselves  close  to  the  piano; 
while  HAROLD  goes  to  the  window]  John!  get  off  the 
stage!    Now  then,  "Eccles  enters  breathless,  Esther 
and  Polly  rise."    Wait  a  minute.     I  know  now.  [She 
opens  the  workroom  door]  Freda,  I  wanted  a  band- 
box. 

HAROLD.  [Cheerfully]  I  hate  beginning  to  rehearse, 
you  know,  you  feel  such  a  fool. 


36  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  n 

Dor.  [With  her  bandbox — gloomily]  You'll  feel  more 
of  a  fool  when  you  have  begun.  [To  BILL,  who  is  star- 
ing into  the  workroom]  Shut  the  door.  Now. 

[BiLL  shuts  the  door. 

LATTER.  [Advancing]  Look  here!  I  want  to  clear 
up  a  point  of  psychology  before  we  start. 

DOT.  Good  Lord! 

LATTER.  When  I  bring  in  the  milk — ought  I  to  bring 
it  in  seriously — as  if  I  were  accustomed — I  mean,  I 
maintain  that  if  I'm 

JOAN.  Oh!  John,  but  I  don't  think  it's  meant  that 
you  should 

Dor.  Shut  up!  Go  back,  John!  Blow  the  milk! 
Begin,  begin,  begin!  Bill! 

LATTER.  [Turning  round  and  again  advancing]  But 
I  think  you  underrate  the  importance  of  my  entrance 
altogether. 

MABEL.  Oh!  no,  Mr.  Latter! 

LATTER.  I  don't  in  the  least  want  to  destroy  the  bal- 
ance of  the  scene,  but  I  do  want  to  be  clear  about  the 
spirit.  What  is  the  spirit  ? 

Dor.  [With  gloom]  Rollicking! 

LATTER.  Well,  I  don't  think  so.  We  shall  run  a 
great  risk  with  this  play,  if  we  rollick. 

Dor.  Shall  we  ?    Now  look  here ! 

MABEL.  [Softly  to  BILL]  Mr.  Cheshire! 

BILL.  [Desperately]  Let's  get  on! 

Dor.  [Waving  LATTER  back]  Begin,  begin!    At  last! 
But  JACKSON  has  come  in> 


ACT  ii  THE   ELDEST  SON  37 

JACKSON.  [To  CHRISTINE]  Studdenham  says,  M'm,  if 
the  young  ladies  want  to  see  the  spaniel  pups,  he's 
brought  'em  round. 

JOAN.  [Starting  up]  Oh!  come  on,  John! 

[She  flies  towards  the  door,  followed  by  LATTER. 

DOT.  [Gesticulating  with  her  book]  Stop!     You 

[CHRISTINE  and  HAROLD  also  rush  past. 

DOT.  [Despairingly]  First  pick!  [Tearing  her  hair] 
Pigs!  Devils!  [She  rushes  after  them. 

BILL,  and  MABEL  are  left  alone. 

MABEL.  [Mockingly]  And  don't  you  want  one  of  the 
spaniel  pups? 

BILL.  [Painfully  reserved  and  sullen,  and  conscious  of 
the  workroom  door]  Can't  keep  a  dog  in  town.  You 
can  have  one,  if  you  like.  The  breeding's  all  right. 

MABEL.  Sixth  pick? 

BILL.  The  girls'll  give  you  one  of  theirs.  They  only 
fancy  they  want  'em. 

MABEL.  [Moving  near  w  to  him,  with  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her]  You  know,  )  ou  remind  me  awfully  of  your 
father.  Except  that  you're  not  nearly  so  polite.  I  don't 
understand  you  English — lords  of  the  soil.  The  way 
you  have  of  disposing  of  your  females.  [With  a  sudden 
change  of  voice]  What  was  the  matter  with  you  last 
night  ?  [Softly]  Won't  you  tell  me  ? 

BILL.  Nothing  to  tell. 

MABEL.  Ah!  no,  Mr.  Bill. 

BILL.  [Almost  succumbing  to  her  voice — then  sullenly] 
Worried,  I  suppose. 


88  THE   ELDEST  SON  ACT  n 

MABEL.  [Returning  to  her  mocking]  Quite  got  over  it  ? 

BILL.  Don't  chaff  me,  please. 

MABEL.  You  really  are  rather  formidable. 

BILL.  Thanks. 

MABEL.  But,  you  know,  I  love  to  cross  a  field  where 
there's  a  bull. 

BILL.  Really!    Very  interesting. 

MABEL.  The  way  of  their  only  seeing  one  thing  at  a 
time.  [She  moves  back  as  he  advances]  And  overturning 
people  on  the  journey. 

BILL.  Hadn't  you  better  be  a  little  careful  ? 

MABEL.  And  never  to  see  the  hedge  until  they're 
stuck  in  it.  And  then  straight  from  that  hedge  into  the 
opposite  one. 

BILL.  [Savagely]  What  makes  you  bait  me  this  morn- 
ing of  all  mornings? 

MABEL.  The  beautiful  morning!  [Suddenly]  It  must 
be  dull  for  poor  Freda  working  in  there  with  all  this  fun 
going  on  ? 

BILL.  [Glancing  at  the  door]  Fun  you  call  it? 

MABEL.  To  go  back  to  you,  now — Mr.  Cheshire. 

BILL.  No. 

MABEL.  You  always  make  me  feel  so  Irish.  Is  it 
because  you're  so  English,  d'you  think  ?  Ah!  I  can  see 
him  moving  his  ears.  Now  he's  pawing  the  ground- 
He's  started! 

BILL.  Miss  Lanfarne! 

MABEL.  [Still  backing  away  from  him,  and  drawing 
him  on  with  her  eyes  and  smile]  You  can't  help  coming 


ACT  ii  THE  ELDEST  SON  39 

after  me!  [Then  with  a  sudden  change  to  a  sort  of  stern 
gravity]  Can  you  ?     You'll  feel  that  when  I've  gone. 

They  stand  quite  still,  looking  into  each  other's 
eyes  and  FREDA,  wJw  has  opened  the  door  oj 
the  workroom  stares  at  them. 

MABEL.  [Seeing  her]  Here's  the  stile.    Adieu,  Mon- 
sieur le  taureau! 

She  puts  her  hand  behind  her,  opens  the  door,  and 
slips  through,  leaving  BILL  to  turn,  following 
the  direction  of  her  eyes,  and  see  FREDA  with 
the  cloak  still  in  her  hand. 

BILL.  [Slowly  walking  towards  her]  I  haven't  slept 
all  night. 
FREDA.  No? 
BILL.  Have  you  been  thinking  it  over? 

[FREDA  gives  a  bitter  little  laugh. 
BILL.  Don't!    We  must  make  a  plan.     I'll  get  you 
away.     I  won't  let  you  suffer.     I  swear  I  won't. 
FREDA.  That  will  be  clever. 

BILL.  I  wish  to  Heaven  my  affairs  weren't  in  such  a 
mess. 

FREDA.  I  shall  be — all — right,  thank  you. 
BILL.  You  must  think  me  a  blackguard.  [She  shakes 
her  head]  Abuse  me — say  something!    Don't  look  like 
that! 

FREDA.  Were  you  ever  really  fond  of  me  ? 
BILL.  Of  course  I  was,  I  am  now.     Give  me  your 
hands. 

She  looks  at  him,  then  drags  her  hands  from  his, 
and  covers  her  face. 


40  THE   ELDEST  SON  ACT  n 

BILL.  [Clenching  his  fists]  Look  here!  I'll  prove  it. 
[Then  as  she  suddenly  flings  her  arms  round  his  neck  and 
clings  to  him]  There,  there! 

There  is  a  click  of  a  door  handle.  They  start  away 
from  each  other,  and  see  LADY  CHESHIRE  re- 
garding them. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Without  irony]  I  beg  your  pardon. 
She  makes  as  if  to  withdraw  from  an  unwarranted 
intrusion,  but  suddenly  turning*  standst  with 
lips  pressed  together,  waiting. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  Yes? 

FREDA  has  muffled  her  face.    But  BILL  turns  and 

confronts  his  mother. 
BILL.  Don't  say  anything  against  her! 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Tries  to  speak  to  him  and  fails — 
then  to  FREDA]  Please — go! 

BILL.  [Taking  FREDA'S  arm]  No. 

LADY  CHESHIRE,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  her<- 

self  moves  towards  the  door. 
BILL.  Stop,  mother! 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  I  think  perhaps  not. 
BILL.  [Looking  at  FREDA,  who  is  cowering  as  though 
from  a  blow]  It's  a  d — d  shame! 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  It  is. 

BILL.  [With  sudden  resolution]  It's  not  as  you  think. 
I'm  engaged  to  be  married  to  her. 

[FREDA  gives  him  a  wild  stare,  and  turns  away. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Looking  from  one  to  the  other]   I — 
don't — think — I — quite — understand. 


ACT  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  41 

BILL.  [With  the  brutality  of  his  mortification]  What  I 
said  was  plain  enough. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  Bill! 
BILL.  I  tell  you  I  am  going  to  marry  her. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  [To  FREDA]  Is  that  true? 

[FREDA  gulps  and  remains  silent. 

BILL.  If  you  want  to  say  anything,  say  it  to  me, 
mother. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Gripping  the  edge  of  a  little  table] 
Give  me  a  chair,  please.  [BiLL  gives  her  a  chair. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [To  FREDA]  Please  sit  down  too. 
FREDA  sits  on  tJie  piano  stool,  still  turning  her 
face  away. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Fixing  her  eyes  on  FREDA]  Now! 

BILL.  I  fell  in  love  with  her.     And  she  with  me. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  When? 

BILL.  In  the  summer. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Ah! 

BILL.  It  wasn't  her  fault. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  No? 

BILL.  [With  a  sort  of  menace]  Mother! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Forgive  me,  I  am  not  quite  used 
to  the  idea.  You  say  that  you — are  engaged  ? 

BILL.  Yes. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  The  reasons  against  such  an  en- 
gagement have  occurred  to  you,  I  suppose?  [With  a 
sudden  change  of  tone]  Bill !  what  does  it  mean  P 

BILL,  If  you  think  she's  trapped  me  into  this-  -  — 


42  THE   ELDEST   SON  ACT  u 

LAD>T  CHESHIRE.  I  do  not.  Neither  do  I  think  she 
nas  been  trapped.  I  think  nothing.  I  understand 
nothing. 

BILL,.  [Grimly]  Good! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  How  long  has  this— engagement 
lasted  ? 

BILL.  [After  a  silence]  Two  months. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Suddenly]  This  is — this  is  quite 
impossible. 

BILL.  You'll  find  it  isn't.  . 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  It's  simple  misery. 

BILL.  [Pointing  to  the  workroom]  Go  and  wait  in 
there,  Freda. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Quickly]  And  are  you  still  in  love 
with  her? 

FREDA,  moving  towards  the  workroom,  smothers 
a  sob. 

BILL.  Of  course  I  am. 

FREDA  has  gone,  and  as  she  goes,  LADY  CHESHIRE 
nses  suddenly,  forced  by  the  intense  feeling  she 
has  been  keeping  in  hand. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Bill!  Oh,  Bill!  What  does  it  all 
mean  ?  [BILL,  looking  from  side  to  side,  only  shrugs  his 
shoulders]  You  are  not  in  love  with  her  now.  It's  no 
good  telling  me  you  are. 

BILL.  I  am. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  That's  not  exactly  how  you  would 
speak  if  you  were. 

BILL.  She's  in  love  with  me. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Bitterly]  I  suppose  so. 


An  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  43 

BILL.  I  mean  to  see  that  nobody  runs  her  down. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [With  difficulty]  Bill!  Am  I  a  hard, 
or  mean  woman  ? 

BILL.  Mother! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  It's  all  your  life — and — your  fath- 
er's— and — all  of  us.  I  want  to  understand — I  must 
understand.  Have  you  realised  what  an  awful  thing 
this  would  be  for  us  all?  It's  quite  impossible  that 
it  should  go  on. 

BILL.  I'm  always  in  hot  water  with  the  Governor, 
as  it  is.  She  and  I'll  take  good  care  not  to  be  in  the 
way. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Tell  me  everything! 

BILL.  I  have. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  I'm  your  mother,  Bill. 

BILL.  What's  the  good  of  these  questions  ? 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  You  won't  give  her  away — I  see! 

BILL.  I've  told  you  all  there  is  to  tell.  We're  en- 
gaged, we  shall  be  married  quietly,  and — and — go  to 
Canada. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  If  there  weren't  more  than  that  to 
tell  you'd  be  in  love  with  her  now. 

BILL.  I've  told  you  that  I  am. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  You  are  not.  [Almost  fiercely]  I 
know — I  know  there's  more  behind. 

BILL.  There — is — nothing. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Baffled,  but  unconvinced]  Do  you 
mean  that  your  love  for  her  has  been  iust  what  it  might 
have  been  for  a  lady  ? 

BILL.  [Bitterly]  Why  not? 


44  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  n 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [With  painful  irony]  It  is  not  so 
as  a  rule. 

BILL.  Up  to  now  I've  never  heard  you  or  the  girls 
say  a  word  against  Freda.  This  isn't  the  moment  to 
begin,  please. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Solemnly]  All  such  marriages  end 
in  wretchedness.  You  haven't  a  taste  or  tradition  in 
common.  You  don't  know  what  marriage  is.  Day 
after  day,  year  after  year.  It's  no  use  being  sentimen- 
tal— for  people  brought  up  as  we  are  to  have  dif- 
ferent manners  is  worse  than  to  have  different  souls. 
Besides,  it's  poverty.  Your  father  will  never  forgive 
you,  and  I've  practically  nothing.  What  can  you  do  ? 
You  have  no  profession.  How  are  you  going  to  stand 
it;  with  a  woman  who ?  It's  the  little  things. 

BILL.  I  know  all  that,  thanks. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Nobody  does  till  thsy've  been 
through  it.  Marriage  is  hard  enough  when  people  art 
of  the  same  class.  [With  a  sudden  movement  towards 
him]  Oh!  my  dear — before  it's  too  late! 

BILL.  [After  a  struggle]  It's  no  good. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  It's  not  fair  to  her.  It  can  only 
end  in  her  misery. 

BILL.  Leave  that  to  me,  please. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [With  an  almost  angry  vehemence] 
Only  the  very  finest  can  do  such  things.  And  you — 
don't  even  know  what  trouble's  like. 

BILL.  Drop  it,  please,  mother. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Bill,  on  your  word  of  honour,  are 
you  acting  of  your  own  free  will  ? 


ACTII  THE  ELDEST  SON  45 

BILL.  [Breaking  away  from  her]  I  can't  stand  any 

more.  [He  goes  out  into  the  workroom. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  What  in  God's  name  shall  I  do? 

In  her  distress  she  walks  up  and  down  the  room, 

then  goes  to  the  workroom  door,  and  opens  it. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  Come  in  here,  please,  Freda. 

After  a  second's  pause,  FREDA,  white  and  trem- 
bling, appears  in  the  doorway,  followed  by  BILL. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  No,  Bill.    I  want  to  speak  to  her 
alone. 

BILL  does  not  move. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Icily]  I  must  ask  you  to  leave  us. 
BILL  hesitates;  then  shrugging  his  shoulders,  he 
touches  FREDA'S  arms,  and  goes  back  into  the 
workroom,  closing  the  door.  There  is  silence. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  How  did  it  come  about  ? 

FREDA.  I  don't  know,  my  lady. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  For  heaven's  sake,  child,  don't  call 
me  that  again,  whatever  happens.  [She  walks  to  the 
window,  and  speaks  from  there]  I  know  well  enough 
how  love  comes.  I  don't  blame  you.  Don't  cry.  But, 
you  see,  it's  my  eldest  son.  [FREDA  puts  her  hand  to  her 
breast]  Yes,  I  know.  Women  always  get  the  worst  of 
these  things.  That's  natural.  But  it's  not  only  you — 
is  it  ?  Does  any  one  guess  ? 

FREDA.  No. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Not  even  your  father?  [FREDA 
shakes  her  head}  There's  nothing  more  dreadful  than 
for  a  woman  to  hang  like  a  stone  round  a  man's  neck. 
How  far  has  it  gone?  Tell  me! 


46  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  n 

FREDA.  I  can't. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Come! 

FREDA.  I — won't. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Smiling  painfully].  Won't  give 
him  away  ?  Both  of  you  the  same.  What's  the  use  of 
that  with  me  ?  Look  at  me !  Wasn't  he  with  you  when 
you  went  for  your  holiday  this  summer  ? 

FREDA.  He's — always — behaved — like — a — gentle- 
man. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Like  a  man — you  mean! 

FREDA.  It  hasn't  been  his  fault!    I  love  him  so. 

LADY  CHESHIRE  turns  abruptly,  and  begins  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room.  Then  stopping, 
she  looks  intently  at  FREDA. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you. 
It's  simple  madness!  It  can't,  and  shan't  go  on. 

FREDA.  [Sullenly]  I  know  I'm  not  his  equal,  but  I 
am — somebody. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Answering  this  first  assertion  of 
rights  with  a  sudden  steeliness]  Does  he  love  you  now  ? 

FREDA.  That's  not  fair — it's  not  fair. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  If  men  are  like  gunpowder,  Freda, 
women  are  not.  If  you've  lost  him  it's  been  your  own 
fault. 

FREDA.  But  he  does  love  me,  he  must.  It's  only  four 
months. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Looking  down,  and  speaking  rap- 
idly] Listen  to  me.  I  love  my  son,  but  I  know  him — I 
know  all  his  kind  of  man.  I've  lived  with  one  for  thirty 
years.  I  know  the  way  their  senses  work.  When  they 


ACT  n  THE  ELDEST  SON  47 

want  a  thing  they  must  have  it,  and  then — they're 
sorry. 

FKEDA.  [Sullenly]  He's  not  sorry. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Is  his  love  big  enough  to  cany  you 
both  over  everything  ?  .  .  .  You  know  it  isn't. 

FREDA.  If  I  were  a  lady,  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  If  you  were  a  lady  there 'd  be  no 
trouble  before  either  of  you.  You'll  make  him  hate  you. 

FREDA.  I  won't  believe  it.  I  could  make  him  happy 
— out  there. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  I  don't  want  to  be  so  odious  as  to 
say  all  the  things  you  must  know.  I  only  ask  you  to 
try  and  put  yourself  in  our  position. 

FREDA.  Ah,  yes! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  You  ought  to  know  me  better  than 
to  think  I'm  purely  selfish. 

FREDA.  Would  you  like  to  put  yourself  in  my  posi- 
tion ?  [She  throws  up  her  head. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  What! 

FREDA.  Yes.    Just  like  Rose. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [In  a  low,  horror-stricken  voice]  Oh! 
There  is  a  dead  silence,  then  going  swiftly  up  to 
her,  she  looks  straight  into  FREDA'S  eyes. 

FREDA.  [Meeting  her  gaze]  Oh!  Yes — it's  the  truth. 
[Then  to  Bill  whc  has  come  in  from  the  workroom,  she 
gasps  out]  I  never  meant  to  tell. 

BILL.  Well,  are  you  satisfied  ? 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Below  her  breath]  This  is  terrible! 

BILL.  The  Governor  had  better  know. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Oh!  no;  not  yet! 


48  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  11 

BILL.  Waiting  won't  cure  it! 

The  door  from  the  corridor  is  thrown  open;  CHRIS- 
TINE and  DOT  run  in  with  their  copies  of  the 
play  in  their  hands;  seeing  that  something  is 
wrong,  they  stand  still.  After  a  look  at  his 
mother,  BILL  turns  abruptly,  and  goes  back  into 
the  workroom,  LADY  CHESHIRE  moves  towards 
the  window. 

JOAN.  [Folloiving    her    sisters]  The    car's    round. 
What's  the  matter? 
Dor.  Shut  up! 

SIR  WILLIAM'S  voice  is  heard  from  the  corridor 
calling  "Dorothy!"  As  LADY  CHESHIRE,  pass- 
ing her  handkerchief  over  her  face,  turns  round, 
he  enters.    He  is  in  full  hunting  dress:  well- 
weathered  pink,  buckskins,  and  mahogany  tops. 
SIR  WILLIAM.  Just  off,  my  dear.  [To  his  daughters, 
genially]  Rehearsin'?    What!  [He  goes  up  to  FREDA 
holding  out  his  gloved  right  hand]  Button  that  for  me, 
Freda,  would  you  ?    It's  a  bit  stiff! 

FREDA  buttons  the  glove:  LADY  CHESHIRE  and 

the  girls  watching  in  hypnotic  silence. 
SIR  WILLIAM.  Thank  you!  "Balmy  as  May";  scent 
ought  to  be  first-rate.  [To  LADY  CHESHIRE]  Good-bye, 
my  dear!  Sampson's  Gorse — best  day  of  the  whole 
year.  [He  pats  JOAN  on  the  shoulder]  Wish  you  were 
comin'  out,  Joan. 

He  goes  out,  leaving  the  door  open,  and  as  his 
footsteps  and  the  chink  of  his  spurs  die  away, 
FREDA  turns  and  rushes  into  the  workroom. 


ACT  ii  THE  ELDEST  SON  49 

CHRISTINE.  Mother!    What ? 

But  LADY  CHESHIRE  waves  the  question  aside, 
passes  her  daughter,  and  goes  out  into  the  cor- 
ridor. The  sound  of  a  motor  car  is  heard. 

JOAN.  [Running  to  the  window]  They've  started — ! 
—Chris!    What  is  it?    Dot? 

Dor.  Bill,  and  her! 

JOAN.  But  what? 

DOT.  [Gloomily]  Heaven  knows!  Go  away,  you're 
not  fit  for  this. 

JOAN.  [Aghast]  I  am  fit 

Dor.  I  think  not. 

JOAN.  Chris? 

CHRISTINE.  [In  a  hard  voice]  Mother  ought  to  have 
told  us. 

JOAN.  It  can't  be  very  awful.     Freda's  so  good. 

DOT.  Call  yourself  in  love,  you  milk-and-water — • 
kitten! 

CHRISTINE.  It's  horrible,  not  knowing  anything!    I 
wish  Ronny  hadn't  gone. 

JOAN.  Shall  I  fetch  John  ? 

Dor.  John! 

CHRISTINE.  Perhaps  Harold  knows. 

JOAN.  He  went  out  with  Studdenham. 

DOT.  It's  always  like  this,  women  kept  in  blinkers. 
Rose-leaves  and  humbug!    That  awful  old  man! 

JOAN.  Dot! 

CHRISTINE.  Don't  talk  of  father  like  that! 

DOT.  Well,  he  is!    And  Bill  will  be  just  like  him  at 
fifty!    Heaven  help  Freda,  whatever  she's  done!    I'd 


50  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  n 

sooner  be  a  private  in  a  German  regiment  than  a 
woman. 

JOAN.  Dot,  you're  awful. 
Dor.  You — mouse-hearted — linnet! 
CHRISTINE.  Don't  talk  that  nonsense  about  women! 
DOT.  You're  married  and  out  of  it;  and  Ronny's  not 
one  of  these  terrific  John  Bulls.  [To  JOAN  who  has 
opened  the  door]  Looking  for  John  ?    No  good,  my  dear; 
lath  and  plaster. 

JOAN.  [From  the  door,  in  a  frightened  whisper]  Here's 
Mabel! 

Dor.  Heavens,  and  the  waters  under  the  earth! 
CHRISTINE.  If  we  only  knew! 

As  MABEL  comes  in,  the  three  girls  are  siknt,  with 

their  eyes  fixed  on  their  books. 
MABEL.  The  silent  company. 

Dor.  [Looking  straight  at  her]  We're  chucking  it  for 
to-day. 

MABEL.  What's  the  matter  ? 
CHRISTINE.  Oh!  nothing. 
Dor.  Something's  happened. 

MABEL.  Really!    I  am  sorry.  [Hesitating]  Is  it  bad 
enough  for  me  to  go  ? 

CHRISTINE.  Oh!  no,  Mabel! 

Dor.  [Sardonically]  I  should  think  very  likely. 

While  she  is  looking  from  face  to  face,  BILL  comes 
in  from  the  workroom.  He  starts  to  walk 
across  the  room,  but  stops,  and  looks  stolidly  at 
the  four  girls. 


ACT  ii  THE  ELDEST  SON  51 


Exactly!    Fact  of  the  matter  is,  Miss  Lan- 
farne,  I'm  engaged  to  my  mother's  maid. 

No  one  moves  or  speaks.  Suddenly  MABEL 
LANFARNE  goes  towards  him,  holding  out  her 
hand.  BILL,  does  not  take  her  hand,  but  bows. 
Then  after  a  swift  glance  at  the  girls'  faces 
MABEL  goes  out  into  the  corridor,  and  the  three 
girls  are  left  staring  at  their  brother. 
BILL.  [Coolly]  Thought  you  might  like  to  know. 

[He,  too,  goes  out  into  the  corridor. 
CHRISTINE.  Great  heavens! 
JOAN.  How  awful! 

CHRISTINE.  I  never  thought  of  anything  as  bad  as  that. 
JOAN.  Oh!  Chris!    Something  must  be  done! 
Dor.  [Suddenly  to  herself  ]  Ha!  When  Father  went  up 
to  have  his  glove  buttoned! 

There  is  a  sound,  JACKSON  has  come  in  from  the 

corridor. 

JACKSON.  [To  Dor]  If  you  please,  Miss,  Studden- 
ham's  brought  up  the  other  two  pups.  He's  just  out- 
side. Will  you  kindly  take  a  look  at  them,  he  says  ? 

There  is  silence. 
Dor.  [Suddenly]  We  can't. 
CHRISTINE.  Not  just  now,  Jackson. 
JACKSON.  Is  Studdenham  and  the  pups  to  wait,  M'm  ? 
Dor  shakes  her  head  violently.    But  STUDDEN- 
HAM is  seen  already  standing  in  the  doorway, 
with  a  spaniel  puppy  in  either  side-pocket.    He 
comes  in,  and  JACKSON  stands  waiting  behind 
him. 


52  THE   ELDEST  SON  ACT  n 

STUDDENHAM.  This  fellow's  the  best,  Miss  Dot. 
[He  protrudes  the  right-hand  pocket]  I  was  keeping 
him  for  my  girl — a  proper  breedy  one — takes  after  his 
father. 

The  girls  stare  at  him  in  silence. 

DOT.  [Hastily]  Thanks,  Studdenham,  I  see. 

STUDDENHAM.  I  won't  take  'em  out  in  here.  They're 
rather  bold  yet. 

CHRISTINE.  [Desperately]  No,  no,  of  course. 

STUDDENHAM.  Then  you  think  you'd  like  him,  Miss 
Dot?  The  other's  got  a  white  chest;  she's  a  lady. 

[He  protrudes  the  left-hand  pocket. 

DOT.  Oh,  yes!  Studdenham;  thanks,  thanks  awfully. 

STUDDENHAM.  Wonderful  faithful  creatures;  follow 
you  like  a  woman.  You  can't  shake  'em  off  anyhow. 
[He  protrudes  the  right-hand  pocket]  My  girl,  she'd  set 
her  heart  on  him,  but  she'll  just  have  to  do  without. 

Dor.  [As  though  galvanised]  Oh!  no,  I  can't  take  it 
away  from  her. 

STUDDENHAM.  Bless  you,  she  won't  mind!  That's 
settled,  then.  [He  turns  to  the  door.  To  the  PUPPY] 
Ah!  would  you!  Tryin'  to  wriggle  out  of  it!  Regular 
young  limb!  [He  goes  out,  followed  by  JACKSON. 

CHRISTINE.  How  ghastly! 

Dor.  [Suddenly  catching  sight  of  the  book  in  her  hand] 
"Caste!"  [She  gives  vent  to  a  short  sharp  laugh. 

The  curtain  falls. 


ACT  III 

It  is  five  o'clock  of  the  same  day.  The  scene  is  the 
smoking-room,  with  walls  of  Leander  red,  covered 
by  old  steeplechase  and  hunting  prints.  Armchairs 
encircle  a  high-fendered  hearth,  in  which  afire  is 
burning.  The  curtains  are  not  yet  drawn  across 
mullioned  windows;  but  electric  light  is  burning. 
There  are  two  doors,  leading,  the  one  to  the  billiard- 
room,  the  other  to  a  corridor.  BILL  is  pacing  up  and 
down;  HAROLD,  at  the  fireplace,  stands  looking  at 
him  with  commiseration. 
BILL.  What's  the  time? 

HAROLD.  Nearly  five.  They  won't  be  in  yet,  if  that's 
any  consolation.  Always  a  tough  meet — [softly]  as  the 
tiger  said  when  he  ate  the  man. 

BILL.  By  Jove!  You're  the  only  person  I  can  stand 
within  a  mile  of  me,  Harold. 

HAROLD.  Old  boy!  Do  you  seriously  think  you're 
going  to  make  it  any  better  by  marrying  her  ? 

[Bill  shrugs  his  shoulders,  still  pacing  the  room. 
BILL.  Look  here !    I'm  not  the  sort  that  finds  it  easy 
to  say  things. 

HABOLD.  No,  old  man. 

BILL.  But  I've  got  a  kind  of  self-respect  though  you 
wouldn't  think  it! 
HAROLD.  My  d«ar  old  chap! 
53 


51  THE   ELDEST  SON  ACT  in 

BILL.  This  is  about  as  low-down  a  thing  as  one  could 
have  done,  I  suppose — one's  own  mother's  maid;  we've 
known  her  since  she  was  so  high.  I  see  it  now  that — • 
I've  got  over  the  attack. 

HAROLD.  But,  heavens!  if  you're  no  longer  keen  on 
her,  Bill!  Do  apply  your  reason,  old  boy. 

There  is  silence;  while  BILL  again  paces  up  and 
down. 

BILL.  If  you  think  I  care  two  straws  about  the 
morality  of  the  thing 

HAROLD.  Oh!  my  dear  old  man!    Of  course  not! 

BILL.  It's  simply  that  I  shall  feel  such  a  d — d  skunk, 
if  I  leave  her  in  the  lurch,  with  everybody  knowing. 
Try  it  yourself;  you'd  soon  see! 

HAROLD.  Poor  old  chap! 

BILL.  It's  not  as  if  she'd  tried  to  force  me  into  it. 
And  she's  a  soft  little  thing.  Why  I  ever  made  such  a 
sickening  ass  of  myself,  I  can't  think.  I  never  meant — 

HAROLD.  No,  I  know!  But,  don't  do  anything  rash, 
Bill;  keep  your  head,  old  man! 

BILL.  I  don't  see  what  loss  I  should  be,  if  I  did  clear 
out  of  the  country.  [The  sound  of  cannoning  billiard^ 
balls  is  heard]  Who's  that  knocking  the  balls  about  ? 

HAROLD.  John,  I  expect.  [The  sound  ceases. 

BILL.  He's  coming  in  here.     Can't  stand  that! 

As  LATTER  appears  from  the  billiard-roomt  h$ 
goes  hurriedly  out. 

LATTER.  Was  that  Bill? 

HAROLD.  Yes. 

LATTER.  Well? 


ACT  m  THE  ELDEST  SON  55 

HAROLD.  [Pacing  up  and  down  in  his  turn]  Rat  in  a 
cage  is  a  fool  to  him.  This  is  the  sort  of  thing  you  read 
of  in  books,  John!  What  price  your  argument  with 
Ronny  now  ?  Well,  it's  not  too  late  for  you  luckily. 

LATTER.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

HAROLD.  You  needn't  connect  yourself  with  this  ec- 
centric family! 

LATTER.  I'm  not  a  bounder,  Harold. 

HAROLD.  Good! 

LATTER.  It's  terrible  for  your  sisters. 

HAROLD.  Deuced  lucky  we  haven't  a  lot  of  people 
staying  here!  Poor  mother!  John,  I  feel  awfully  bad 
about  this.  If  something  isn't  done,  pretty  mess  I  shall 
be  in. 

LATTER.  How? 

HAROLD.  There's  no  entail.  If  the  Governor  cuts 
Bill  off,  it'll  all  come  to  me. 

LATTER.  Oh! 

HAROLD.  Poor  old  Bill!  I  say,  the  play!  Nemesis! 
What?  Moral!  Caste  don't  matter.  Got  us  fairly  on 
the  hop. 

LATTER.  It's  too  bad  of  Bill.  It  really  is.  He's  be- 
haved disgracefully. 

HAROLD.  [Warmly]  Well!  There  are  thousands  of 
fellows  who'd  never  dream  of  sticking  to  the  girl,  con- 
sidering what  it  means. 

LATTER.  Perfectly  disgusting! 

HAROLD.  Hang  you,  John !  Haven't  you  any  human 
sympathy?  Don't  you  know  how  these  things  come 
about?  It's  like  a  spark  in  a  straw-yard. 


56  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  in 

LATTER.  One  doesn't  take  lighted  pipes  into  straw- 
yards  unless  one's  an  idiot,  or  worse. 

HAROLD.  H'm !  [With  a  grin]  You're  not  allowed  to- 
bacco. In  the  good  old  days  no  one  would  have  thought 
anything  of  this.  My  great-grandfather 

LATTER.  Spare  me  your  great-grandfather. 

HAROLD.  I  could  tell  you  of  at  least  a  dozen  men  I 
know  who've  been  through  this  same  business,  and  got 
off  scot-free;  and  now  because  Bill's  going  to  play  the 
game,  it'll  smash  him  up. 

LATTER.  Why  didn't  he  play  the  game  at  the  begin- 
ning? 

HAROLD.  I  can't  stand  your  sort,  John.  When  a 
thing  like  this  happens,  all  you  can  do  is  to  cry  out: 
Why  didn't  he— ?  Why  didn't  she— ?  What's  to  be 
done — that's  the  point! 

LATTER.  Of  course  he'll  have  to 

HAROLD.  Ha! 

LATTER.  What  do  you  mean  by — that  ? 

HAROLD.  Look  here,  John !  You  feel  in  your  bones 
that  a  marriage'll  be  hopeless,  just  as  I  do,  knowing 
Bill  and  the  girl  and  everything!  Now  don't  you? 

LATTER.  The  whole  thing  is — is  most  unfortunate. 

HAROLD.  By  Jove!    I  should  think  it  was! 

As  he  speaks  CHRISTINE  and  KEITH  come  in 
from  the  billiard-room.  He  is  still  in  splashed 
hunting  clothes,  and  looks  exceptionally  weath- 
ered, thin-lipped,  reticent.  He  lights  a  cigarette 
and  sinks  into  an  armchair.  Behind  them  DOT 
and  JOAN  have  come  stealing  in. 


ACT  in  THE  ELDEST  SON  57 

CHRISTINE.  I've  told  Ronny. 
JOAN.  This  waiting  for  father  to  be  told  is  awful. 
HAROLD.  [To  KEITH]  Where  did  you  leave  the  old  man  ? 
KEITH.  Clackenham.     He'll  be  home  in  ten  minutes. 
Dor.  Mabel's  going.  [They  all  stir,  as  if  at  fresh  con- 
sciousness of  discom/ftture].  She  walked  into  Gracely  and 
sent  herself  a  telegram. 
HAROLD.  Phew! 

DOT.  And  we  shall  say  good-bye,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened! 
HAROLD.  It's  up  to  you,  Ronny. 

KEITH,  looking  at  JOAN,  slowly  emits  smoke;  and 
LATTER  passing  his  arm  through  JOAN'S,  draws 
her  away  wiih  him  into  the  billiard-room. 
KEITH.  Dot? 

Dor.  7'm  not  a  squeamy  squirrel. 
KEITH.  Anybody  seen  the  girl  since? 
DOT.  Yes. 
HAROLD.  Well? 
DOT.  She's  just  sitting  there. 
CHRISTINE.  [In  a  hard  voice]  As  we're  all  doing. 
DOT.  She's  so  soft,  that's  what's  so  horrible.    If  one 

could  only  feel ! 

KEITH.  She's  got  to  face  the  music  like  the  rest  of  us. 
DOT.  Music!  Squeaks!  Ugh!    The  whole  thing's  like 
a  concertina,  and  some  one  jigging  it! 

They  all  turn  as  the  door  opens,  and  a  FOOTMAN 
enters  with  a  tray  of  whiskey,  gin,  lemons,  and 
soda  water.  In  dead  silence  the  FOOTMAN  puts 
the  tray  down. 


58  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  in 

HAROLD.  [Forcing  his  roice]  Did  you  get  a  run, 
Ronny?  [As  KEITH  nods]  What  point? 

KEITH.  Eight  mile. 

FOOTMAN.  Will  you  take  tea,  sir? 

KEITH.  No,  thanks,  Charles! 

In  dead  silence  again  the  FOOTMAN  goes  out,  and 
they  all  look  after  him. 

HAROLD.  [Below  his  breath]  Good  Gad!  That's  a 
squeeze  of  it! 

KEITH.  What's  our  line  of  country  to  be  ? 

CHRISTINE.  All  depends  on  father. 

KEITH.  Sir  William's  between  the  devil  and  the  deep 
sea,  as  it  strikes  me. 

CHRISTINE.  He'll  simply  forbid  it  utterly,  of  course. 

KEITH.  H'm!  Hard  case!  Man  who  reads  family 
prayers,  and  lessons  on  Sunday  forbids  son  to 

CHRISTINE.  Ronny! 

KEITH.  Great  Scott!  I'm  not  saying  Bill  ought  to 
marry  her.  She's  got  to  stand  the  racket.  But  your 
Dad  will  have  a  tough  job  to  take  up  that  position. 

Dor.  Awfully  funny! 

CHRISTINE.  What  on  earth  d'you  mean,  Dot  ? 

Dor.  Morality  in  one  eye,  and  your  title  in  the 
other! 

CHRISTINE.  Rubbish! 

HAROLD.  You're  all  reckoning  without  your  Bill. 

KEITH.  Ye-es.  Sir  William  can  cut  him  off;  no 
mortal  power  can  help  the  title  going  down,  if  Bill 

chooses  to  be  such  a 

[He  draws  in  his  breath  with  a  sharp  hisst 


THE  ELDEST  SON  59 

HAHOLD.  I  won't  take  what  Bill  ought  to  have;  nor 
would  any  of  you  girls,  I  should  think 

CHRISTINE  and  Dor.  Of  course  not! 

KEITH.  [Patting  his  wife's  arm]  Hardly  the  point, 
is  it? 

DOT.  If  it  wasn't  for  mother!  Freda's  just  as  much 
of  a  lady  as  most  girls.  Why  shouldn't  he  marry  her, 
and  go  to  Canada  ?  It's  what  he's  really  fit  for. 

HAROLD.  Steady  on,  Dot! 

DOT.  Well,  imagine  him  in  Parliament!  That's  what 
he'll  come  to,  if  he  stays  here — jolly  for  the  country! 

CHRISTINE.  Don't  be  cynical!  We  must  find  a  way 
of  stopping  Bill. 

DOT.  Me  cynical! 

CHRISTINE.  Let's  go  and  beg  him,  Ronny! 

KEITH.  No  earthly!    The  only  hope  is  in  the  girl. 

Dor.  She  hasn't  the  stuff  in  her! 

HAROLD.  I  say!  What  price  young  Dunning!  Right 
about  face!  Poor  old  Dad! 

CHRISTINE.  It's  past  joking,  Harold! 

DOT.  [Gloomily]  Old  Studdenham's  better  than  most 
relations  by  marriage! 

KEITH.  Thanks! 

CHRISTINE.  It's  ridiculous — monstrous!  It's  fan- 
tastic! 

HAROLD.  [Holding  up  his  hand]  There's  his  horse 
going  round.  He's  in! 

They  turn  from  listening  to  the  sound,  to  see  LADY 
CHESHIRE  coming  from  the  billiard-room.  She 
is  very  pale.  They  all  rise  and  DOT  puts  an 


60  THE   ELDEST  SON  ACT  m 

arm  round  her;  while  KEITH  pushes  forward 
his  chair.  JOAN  and  LATTER  too  have  come 
stealing  back. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Thank  you,  Ronny! 

[She  sits  down. 

DOT.  Mother,  you're  shivering!  Shall  I  get  you  a 
fur? 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  No,  thanks,  dear! 

Dor.  [In  a  low  voice]  Play  up,  mother  darling! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Straightening  herself]  What  sort  of 
a  run,  Ronny? 

KEITH.  Quite  fair,  M'm.  Brazier's  to  Caffyn's  Dyke, 
good  straight  line. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  And  the  young  horse  ? 

KEITH.  Carries  his  ears  in  your  mouth  a  bit,  that's 
all.  [Putting  his  hand  on  her  shoulder]  Cheer  up,  Mem- 
Sahib! 

CHRISTINE.  Mother,  must  anything  be  said  to  father  ? 
Ronny  thinks  it  all  depends  on  her.  Can't  you  use  your 
influence  ?  [LADY  CHESHIRE  shakes  her  head. 

CHRISTINE.  But,  mother,  it's  desperate. 

DOT.  Shut  up,  Chris!  Of  course  mother  can't.  We 
simply  couldn't  beg  her  to  let  us  off! 

CHRISTINE.  There  must  be  some  way.  What  do  you 
think  in  your  heart,  mother  ? 

Dor.  Leave  mother  alone! 

CHRISTINE.  It  must  be  faced,  now  or  never. 

Dor.  [In  a  low  voice]  Haven't  you  any  self-respect  ? 

CHRISTINE.  We  shall  be  the  laughing-stock  of  the 
whole  county.  Oh!  mother  do  speak  to  her!  You 


ACTIH  THE  ELDEST  SON  61 

know  it'll  be  misery  for  both  of  them.  [LADY  CHESHIRE 
bows  her  head]  Well,  then  ? 

[LADY  CHESHIRE  shakes  her  head. 

CHRISTINE.  Not  even  for  Bill's  sake  ? 

Dor.  Chris! 

CHRISTINE.  Well,  for  heaven's  sake,  speak  to  Bill 
again,  mother!  We  ought  all  to  go  on  our  knees  to  him. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  He's  with  your  father  now. 

HAROLD.  Poor  old  Bill! 

CHRISTINE.  [Passionately]  He  didn't  think  of  usJ 
That  wretched  girl! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Chris! 

CHRISTINE.  There  are  limits! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Not  to  self-control. 

CHRISTINE.  No,  mother!  I  can't — I  never  shall — • 
Something  must  be  done!  You  know  what  Bill  is.  He 
rushes  at  things  so,  when  he  gets  his  head  down.  Oh! 
do  try!  It's  only  fair  to  her,  and  all  of  us! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Painfully]  There  are  things  one 
can't  do. 

CHRISTINE.  But  it's  Bill!  I  know  you  can  make  her 
give  him  up,  if  you'll  only  say  all  you  can.  And,  after 
all,  what's  coming  won't  affect  her  as  if  she'd  been  a 
lady.  Only  you  can  do  it,  mother.  Do  back  me  up, 
all  of  you!  It's  the  only  way! 

Hypnotised  by  their  private  longing  for  what 
CHRISTINE  has  been  urging  they  have  all  fixed 
their  eyes  on  LADY  CHESHIRE,  who  looks  from 
face  to  face>  and  moves  her  hands  as  if  in  phys* 
ical  pain. 


62  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  in 

CHRISTINE.  [Softly]  Mother! 

LADY  CHESHIRE  suddenly  rises,  looking  towards 
the  billiard-room  door,  listening.  They  all  fol- 
low her  eyes.  She  sits  down  again,  passing  her 
hand  over  her  lips,  as  SIR  WILLIAM  enters.  His 
hunting  clothes  are  splashed;  his  face  very  grim 
and  set.  He  walks  to  thejire  without  a  glance 
at  any  one,  and  stands  looking  down  into  it. 
Very  quietly,  every  one  but  LADY  CHESHIRE 
steals  away. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  What  have  you  done  ? 
SIR  WILLIAM.  You  there! 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  Don't  keep  me  in  suspense! 
SIR  WILLIAM.  The  fool!  My  God!  Dorothy!  I  didn't 
think  I  had  a  blackguard  for  a  son,  who  was  a  fool  into 
the  bargain. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Rising'}  If  he  were  a  blackguard 
he  would  not  be  what  you  call  a  fool. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [After  staring  angrily,  makes  her  a 
slight  bow}  Very  well! 

LADY    CHESHIRE.  [In  a  low  voice}  Bill,  don't  be 
harsh.     It's  all  too  terrible. 
SIR  WILLIAM.  Sit  down,  my  dear. 

IShe  resumes  her  seat,  and  he  turns  back  to  the  fire. 
SIR  WILLIAM.  In  all  my  life  I've  never  been  face  to 
face  with  a  thing  like  this.  [Gripping  the  mantelpiece  so 
hard  that  his  hands  and  arms  are  seen  shaking]  You  ask 
me  to  be  calm.    I  am  trying  to  be.     Be  good  enough  in 
turn  not  to  take  his  part  against  me. 
LADY  CHESHIRE.  Bill! 


ACTHI  THE  ELDEST  SON  63 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I  am  trying  to  think.  I  understand 
that  you've  known  this — piece  of  news  since  this  morn- 
ing. I've  known  it  ten  minutes.  Give  me  a  little  time, 
please.  [Then,  after  a  silence]  Where's  the  girl? 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  In  the  workroom. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [Raising  his  clenched  fist]  What  in 
God's  name  is  he  about  ? 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  What  have  you  said  to  him  ? 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Nothing — by  a  miracle.  [He  breaks 
away  from  the  fire  and  walks  up  and  down]  My  family 
goes  back  to  the  thirteenth  century.  Nowadays  they 
laugh  at  that!  I  don't!  Nowadays  they  laugh  at 
everything — they  even  laugh  at  the  word  lady — I  mar- 
ried you,  and  I  don't.  .  .  .  Married  his  mother's  maid ! 
By  George!  Dorothy!  I  don't  know  what  we've  done 
to  deserve  this;  it's  a  death  blow!  I'm  not  prepared  to 
sit  down  and  wait  for  it.  By  Gad!  I  am  not.  [With  sud- 
den fierceness]  There  are  plenty  in  these  days  who'll  be 

glad  enough  for  this  to  happen;  plenty  of  these  d d 

Socialists  and  Radicals,  who'll  laugh  their  souls  out  over 
what  they  haven't  the  bowels  to  see's  a — tragedy.  I  say 
it  would  be  a  tragedy;  for  you,  and  me,  and  all  of  us. 
You  and  I  were  brought  up,  and  we've  brought  the  chil- 
dren up,  with  certain  beliefs,  and  wants,  and  habits.  A 
man's  past — his  traditions — he  can't  get  rid  of  them. 
They're — they're  himself !  [Suddenly]  It  shan't  go  on. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  What's  to  prevent  it? 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I  utterly  forbid  this  piece  of  madness. 
I'll  stop  it. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  But  the  thing  we  can't  stop. 


64  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  m 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Provision  must  be  made. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  The  unwritten  law! 

SIR  WILLIAM.  What!  [Suddenly  perceiving  what  she 

is  alluding  to]  You're  thinking  of  young — young 

[SJiortly]  I  don't  see  the  connection. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  What's  so  awful,  is  that  the  boy's 
trying  to  do  what's  loyal — and  we — his  father  and 
mother — ! 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I'm  not  going  to  see  my  eldest  son  ruin 
his  life.  I  must  think  this  out. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Beneath  her  breath]  I've  tried  that 
— it  doesn't  help. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  This  girl,  who  was  born  on  the  estate, 
had  the  run  of  the  house — brought  up  with  money  earned 
from  me — nothing  but  kindness  from  all  of  us;  she's 
broken  the  common  rules  of  gratitude  and  decency — she 
lured  him  on,  I  haven't  a  doubt! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [To  herself]  In  a  way,  I  suppose. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  What!  It's  ruin.  We've  always  been 
here.  Who  the  deuce  are  we  if  we  leave  this  place? 
D'you  think  we  could  stay  ?  Go  out  and  meet  every- 
body just  as  if  nothing  had  happened?  Good-bye  to 
any  prestige,  political,  social,  or  anything!  This  is  the 
sort  of  business  nothing  can  get  over.  I've  seen  it  be- 
fore. As  to  that  other  matter — it's  soon  forgotten — con- 
stantly happening — Why,  my  own  grandfather ! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Does  he  help? 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [Stares  before  him  in  silence — suddenly] 
You  must  go  to  the  girl.  She's  soft.  She'll  never  hold 
out  against  you. 


ACT  in  THE  ELDEST  SON  65 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  I  did  before  I  knew  what  was  in 
front  of  her — I  said  all  I  could.  I  can't  go  again  now. 
I  can't  do  it,  Bill. 

SIB  WILLIAM.  What  are  you  going  to  do,  then — fold 
your  hands  ?  [Then  as  LADY  CHESHIRE  makes  a  move- 
ment of  distress.]  If  he  marries  her,  I've  done  with  him. 
As  far  as  I'm  concerned  he'll  cease  to  exist.  The  title — 
I  can't  help.  My  God !  Does  that  meet  your  wishes  ? 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [With  sudden  Jire]  You've  no  right 
to  put  such  an  alternative  to  me.  I'd  give  ten  years  of 
my  life  to  prevent  this  marriage.  I'll  go  to  Bill.  I'll 
beg  him  on  my  knees. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Then  why  can't  you  go  to  the  girl? 
She  deserves  no  consideration.  It's  not  a  question  of 
morality.  Morality  be  d d! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  But  not  self-respect. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  What!  You're  his  mother! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  I've  tried;  I  [putting  her  hand  to 
her  throat]  can't  get  it  out. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [Staring  at  her]  You  won't  go  to  her  ? 
It's  the  only  chance.  [LADY  CHESHIRE  turns  away. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  In  the  whole  course  of  our  married 
life,  Dorothy,  I've  never  known  you  set  yourself  up 
against  me.  I  resent  this,  I  warn  you — I  resent  it. 
Send  the  girl  to  me.  I'll  do  it  myself. 

With  a  look  back  at  him  LADY  CHESHIRE  goes 
out  into  the  corridor. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  This  is  a  nice  end  to  my  day! 

He  takes  a  small  china  cup  from  off  the  mantel- 
•piece;  it  breaks  with  the  pressure  of  his  hand. 


66  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  m 

and  falls  into  the  fireplace.     While  he  stands 
looking  at  it  blankly,  there  is  a  knock. 
SIR  WILLIAM.  Come  in! 

FREDA  enters  from  the  corridor. 
SIR  WILLIAM.  I've  asked  you  to  be  good  enough  to 
come,  in  order  that — [pointing  to  chair]  You  may  sit 
down. 

But  though  she  advances  two  or  three  steps,  she 

does  not  sit  down. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  This  is  a  sad  business. 
FREDA.  [Below  her  breath]  Yes,  Sir  William. 
SIR  WILLIAM.  [Becoming  conscious  of  the  depths  of 
feeling  before  him]  I — er — are  you  attached  to  my  son  ? 
FREDA.  [In  a  whisper]  Yes. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  It's  very  painful  to  me  to  have  to  do 
this.      [He  turns  away  from  her  and  speaks  to  thejirc. 
I  sent  for  you — to — ask — [quickly]  How  old  are  you  ? 
FREDA.  Twenty-two. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [More  resolutely]  Do  you  expect  me  to 
— sanction  such  a  mad  idea  as  a  marriage  ? 
FREDA.  I  don't  expect  anything. 
SIR  WILLIAM.  You  know — you  haven't  earned  the 
right  to  be  considered. 
FREDA.  Not  yet! 

SIR  WILLIAM.  What!  That  oughtn't  to  help  you! 
On  the  contrary.  Now  brace  yourself  up,  and  listen 
to  me! 

She  stands  ivaiting  to  hear  her  sentence.  SIR 
WILLIAM  looks  at  her.'  and  his  glance  gradu- 
ally wavers. 


ACT  m  THE   ELDEST  SON  67 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I've  not  a  word  to  say  for  nr  son. 
He's  behaved  like  a  scamp. 

FREDA.  Oh!  no! 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [With  a  silencing  gesture]  At  the  same 
time —  What  made  you  forget  yourself?  You've  no 
excuse,  you  know. 

FREDA.  No. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  You'll  deserve  all  you'll  get.  Con- 
found it!  To  expect  me  to —  It's  intolerable!  Do 
you  know  where  my  son  is? 

FREDA.  [Faintly]  I  think  he's  in  the  billiard-room 
with  my  lady. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [With  renewed  resolution]  I  wanted  to 
— to  put  it  to  you — as  a — as  a — what !  [Seeing  her  stand 
so  absolutely  motionless,  looking  at  him,  he  turns  abruptly, 
and  opens  the  billiard-room  door]  I'll  speak  to  him  first. 
Come  in  here,  please!  [To  FREDA]  Go  in,  and  wait! 

LADY  CHESHIRE  and  BILL  come  in,  and  FREDA 
passing  them,  goes  into  the  billiard-room  to  wait. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [Speaking  with  a  pause  between  each 
sentence]  Your  mother  and  I  have  spoken  of  this — ca- 
lamity. I  imagine  that  even  you  have  some  dim  percep- 
tion of  the  monstrous  nature  of  it.  I  must  tell  you  this: 
If  you  do  this  mad  thing,  you  fend  for  yourself.  You'll 
receive  nothing  from  me  now  or  hereafter.  I  consider 
that  only  due  to  the  position  our  family  has  always  held 
here.  Your  brother  will  take  your  place.  We  shall  get 
on  as  best  we  can  without  you.  [There  is  a  dead  silence, 
till  he  adds  sharply]  Well! 

BILL.  I  shall  marry  her. 


68  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  m 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Oh!  Bill!  Without  love — without 
anything! 

BILL.  All  right,  mother!  [To  SIB  WILLIAM]  You've 
mistaken  your  man,  sir.  Because  I'm  a  rotter  in  one 
way,  I'm  not  necessarily  a  rotter  in  all.  You  put  the 
butt  end  of  the  pistol  to  Dunning's  head  yesterday, 
you  put  the  other  end  to  mine  to-day.  Well!  [He  turn* 
round  to  go  out]  Let  the  d — d  thing  off! 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Bill! 

BILL.  [Turning  to  her]  I'm  not  going  to  leave  her  in 
the  lurch. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Do  me  the  justice  to  admit  that  I  have 
not  attempted  to  persuade  you  to. 

BILL.  No!  you've  chucked  me  out.  I  don't  see  what 
else  you  could  have  done  under  the  circumstances.  It's 
quite  all  right.  But  if  you  wanted  me  to  throw  her  over, 
father,  you  went  the  wrong  way  to  work,  that's  all; 
neither  you  nor  I  are  very  good  at  seeing  consequences. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Do  you  realise  your  position  ? 

BILL.  [Grimly]  I've  a  fair  notion  of  it. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [With  a  sudden  outburst]  You  har« 
none — not  the  faintest,  brought  up  as  you've  been. 

BILL.  I  didn't  bring  myself  up. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [With  a  movement  of  uncontrolled  anger, 
to  which  his  son  responds]  You — ungrateful  young  dog.' 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  How  can  you — both? 

[They  drop  their  eyest  and  stand  silent. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  [With  grimly  suppressed  emotion]  lam 
speaking  under  the  stress  of  very  great  pain — some  con- 
sideration is  due  to  me.  This  is  a  disaster  which  I  never 


ACT  in  THE  ELDEST  SON  69 

expected  to  have  to  face.  It  is  a  matter  which  I  natu- 
rally can  never  hope  to  forget.  I  shall  carry  this  down 
to  my  death.  We  shall  all  of  us  do  that.  I  have  had 
the  misfortune  all  my  life  to  believe  in  our  position  here 
— to  believe  that  we  counted  for  something — that  the 
country  wanted  us.  I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty  by  that 
position.  I  find  in  one  moment  that  it  is  gone — smoke 
— gone.  My  philosophy  is  not  equal  to  that.  To  coun- 
tenance this  marriage  would  be  unnatural. 

BILL.  I  know.  I'm  sorry.  I've  got  her  into  this — 
I  don't  see  any  other  way  out.  It's  a  bad  business  for 

me,  father,  as  well  as  for  you 

He  stops,  seeing  that  JACKSON  has  come  in,  and 
is  standing  there  waiting. 

JACKSON.  Will  you  speak  to  Studdenham,  Sir 
William  ?  It's  about  young  Dunning. 

After  a  moment  of  dead  silence,  SIR  WILLIAM 
nods,  and  the  butler  withdraws. 

BILL.  [Stolidly]  He'd  better  be  told. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  He  shall  be. 

STUDDENHAM  enters,  and  touches  his  forehead  to 
them  all  with  a  comprehensive  gesture. 

STUDDENHAM.  Good  evenin',  my  lady!  Evenin*,  Sir 
William! 

STUDDENHAM.  Glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you,  the  young 
man's  to  do  the  proper  thing.  Asked  me  to  let  you 
know,  Sir  William.  Banns'll  be  up  next  Sunday. 
[Struck  by  the  silence,  he  looks  round  at  all  three  in  turn, 
and  suddenly  seeing  that  LADY  CHESHIRE  is  shivering] 
Beg  pardon,  my  lady,  you're  shakin'  like  a  leaf! 


70  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  in 

BILL.  [Blurting  it  out]  I've  a  painful  piece  of  news 
for  you,  Studdenham;  I'm  engaged  to  your  daughter. 
We're  to  be  married  at  once. 

STUDDENHAM.  I — don't — understand  you — sir. 

BILL.  The  fact  is,  I've  behaved  badly;  but  I  mean 
to  put  it  straight. 

STUDDENHAM.  I'm  a  little  deaf.  Did  you  say — my 
daughter  ? 

SIR  WILLIAM.  There's  no  use  mincing  matters,  Stud- 
denham. It's  a  thunderbolt — young  Dunning's  case 
over  again. 

STUDDENHAM.  I  don't  rightly  follow.  She's — 
You've — !  I  must  see  my  daughter.  Have  the  good- 
ness to  send  for  her,  m'lady. 

LADY  CHESHIRE  goes  to  the  billiard-room,  and 
calls:  "FREDA,  come  here,  please." 

STUDDENHAM.  [To  SIR  WILLIAM]  You  tell  me  that 
my  daughter's  in  the  position  of  that  girl  owing  to  your 
son  ?  Men  ha'  been  shot  for  less. 

BILL.  If  you  like  to  have  a  pot  at  me,  Studdenham— 
you're  welcome. 

STUDDENHAM.  [Averting  his  eyes  from  BILL  at  the 
sheer  idiocy  of  this  sequel  to  his  words]  I've  been  in  your 
service  five  and  twenty  years,  Sir  William;  but  this  is 
man  to  man — this  is! 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I  don't  deny  that,  Studdenham. 

STUDDENHAM.  [With  eyes  shifting  in  sheer  anger] 
No — 'twouldn't  be  very  easy.  Did  I  understand  him 
to  say  that  he  offers  her  marriage  ? 

SIB  WILLIAM.  You  did. 


ACT  HI  THE  ELDEST  SON  71 

STUDDENHAM.  [Into  his  beard]  Well — that's  some- 
thing! [Moving  his  hands  as  if  wringing  the  neck  of  a 
bird]  I'm  tryin'  to  see  the  rights  o'  this. 

SIB  WILLIAM.  [Bitterly]  You've  all  your  work  cut  out 
for  you,  Studdenham. 

Again  STUDDENHAM  makes  the  unconscious 
wringing  movement  with  his  hands. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Turning  from  it  with  a  sort  of  hor- 
ror] Don't,  Studdenham!  Please! 

STUDDENHAM.  What's  that,  m'lady? 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  [Under  her  breath]  Your^— your — 
hands. 

While  STUDDENHAM  is  still  staring  at  her,  FREDA 
is  seen  standing  in  the  doorway,  like  a  black 
ghost. 

STUDDENHAM.  Come  here!  You!  [FREDA  moves  a 
few  steps  towards  her  father]  When  did  you  start 
this? 

FREDA.  [Almost  inaudibly]  In  the  summer,  father. 

LADY  CHESHIRE.  Don't  be  harsh  to  her! 

STUDDENHAM.  Harsh!  [His  eyes  again  move  from 
tide  to  side  as  if  pain  and  anger  had  bewildered  them. 
Then  looking  sideways  at  FREDA,  but  in  a  gentler  voice] 
And  when  did  you  tell  him  about — what's  come  to 
you? 

FREDA.  Last  night. 

STUDDENHAM.     Oh!     [With  sudden  menace]     You 

young !  [He  makes  a  convulsive  movement  of  one 

hand;    then,  in  the  silence,  seems  to  lose  grip  of  his 
thoughts,  and  puts  his  hand  up  to  his  head]  I  want  to 


72  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  nr 

clear  me  mind  a  bit — I  don't  see  it  plain  at  all.  [With* 
out  looking  at  BILL]  'Tis  said  there's  been  an  offer  of 
marriage  ? 

BILL.  I've  made  it,  I  stick  to  it. 

STUDDENHAM.  Oh!  [With  slow,  puzzled  anger]  I  want 
time  to  get  the  pith  o*  this.  You  don't  say  anything, 
Sir  William? 

SIR  WILLIAM.  The  facts  are  all  before  you. 

STUDDENHAM.  [Scarcely  moving  his  lips]  M'lady  ? 

[LADY  CHESHIRE  is  silent. 

STUDDENHAM.  [Stammering]  My  girl  was — was  good 
enough  for  any  man.  It's  not  for  him  that's — that's — 
to  look  down  on  her.  [To  FREDA]  You  hear  the  hand- 
some offer  that's  been  made  you?  Well?  [FREDA 
moistens  her  lips  and  tries  to  speak,  but  cannot]  If 
nobody's  to  speak  a  word,  we  won't  get  much  for- 
rarder.  I'd  like  for  you  to  say  what's  in  your  mind, 
Sir  William. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I — If  my  son  marries  her  he'll  have  to 
make  his  own  way. 

STUDDENHAM.  [Savagely]  I'm  not  puttin*  thought  to 
that. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  I  didn't  suppose  you  were,  Studden- 
ham.  It  appears  to  rest  with  your  daughter.  [He  sud- 
denly takes  out  his  handkerchief,  and  puts  it  to  his  fore- 
head] Infernal  fires  they  make  up  here! 

LADY  CHESHIRE,  who  is  again  shivering  desper- 
ately, as  if  with  intense  cold,  makes  a  violent 
attempt  to  control  her  shuddering. 


ACT  m  THE  ELDEST  SON  73 

STUDDENHAM.  [Suddenly]  There's  luxuries  that's  got 
to  be  paid  for.  [To  FREDA]  Speak  up,  now. 

FEEDA  turns  slowly  and  looks  up  at  SIR  WILLIAM; 
he  involuntarily  raises  his  hand  to  his  mouth. 
Her  eyes  travel  on  to  LADY  CHESHIRE,  who 
faces  her,  but  so  deadly  pale  that  she  looks  as 
if  she  were  going  to  faint.  The  girl's  gaze 
passes  on  to  BILL,  standing  rigid,  with  his 
jaw  set. 

FREDA.  I  want — [Then  flinging  her  arm  up  over  her 
eyes,  she  turns  from  him]  No! 
SIR  WILLIAM.  Ah! 

At  that  sound  of  profound  relief,  STUDDENHAM, 
whose  eyes  have  been  following  his  daughter's, 
moves  towards  SIR  WILLIAM,  all  his  emotion 
turned  into  sheer  angry  pride. 

STUDDENHAM.  Don't  be  afraid,  Sir  William!  We 
want  none  of  you !  She'll  not  force  herself  where  she's 
not  welcome.  She  may  ha'  slipped  her  good  name,  but 
she'll  keep  her  proper  pride.  I'll  have  no  charity  mar- 
riage in  my  family. 

SIR  WILLIAM.  Steady,  Studdenham! 
STUDDENHAM.  If  the  young  gentleman  has  tired  of 
her  in  three  months,  as  a  blind  man  can  see  by  the 
looks  of  him — she's  not  for  him! 

BILL.  [Stepping  forward]  I'm  ready  to  make  it  up  to 
her. 

STUDDENHAM.  Keep  back,  there  ?  [He  takes  hold  of 
FREDA,  and  looks  around  him]  Well!  She's  not  the 
first  this  has  happened  to  since  the  world  began, 


74  THE  ELDEST  SON  ACT  m 

an'  she  won't  be  the  last.      Come  away,  now,  come 
away!  • 

Taking  FREDA  by  the  shoulders,  he  guides  her 
towards  the  door. 

SIR   WILLIAM.  D n   it,   Studdenham!    Give  us 

credit  for  something! 

STUDDENHAM.  [  Turning — his  face  and  eyes  lighted  up 
by  a  sort  of  smiling  snarl]  Ah!  I  do  that,  Sir  William. 
But  there's  things  that  can't  be  undone! 

[He  follows  FREDA  out. 

As  the  door  closes,  SIR  WILLIAM'S  calm  gives  way. 
He  staggers  past  his  wife,  and  sinks  heavily, 
as  though  exhausted,  into  a  chair  by  the  fire. 
BILL,  following  FREDA  and  STUDDENHAM,  has 
stopped  at  the  shut  door.  LADY  CHESHIRE 
moves  swiftly  close  to  him.  The  door  of  the 
billiard-room  is  opened,  and  Dor  appears.  With 
a  glance  round,  she  crosses  quickly  to  her  mother. 
DOT.  [In  a  low  voice]  Mabel's  just  going,  mother! 

[Almost  whispering]  Where's  Freda?    Is  it Has 

she  really  had  the  pluck  ? 

LADY  CHESHIRE  bending  her  head  for  "  Yes," 
goes  out  into  the  billiard-room.  DOT  clasps  her 
hands  together,  and  standing  there  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  looks  from  her  brother  to  her  father, 
from  her  father  to  her  brother.  A  quaint  little 
pitying  smile  comes  on  her  lips.  She  gives  a 
faint  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 

The  curtain  faUs. 


THE   LITTLE   DREAM 

AN  ALLEGORY  IN   SIX   SCENES 


CHARACTERS 

SEELCHEN,  a  mountain  girl 
LAMOND,  a  climber 
FELSMAN,  a  guide 

CHARACTERS  IN  THE  DREAM 

THE  GREAT  HORN} 

THE  Cow  HORN     >  mountains 

THE  WINE  HORN  } 


flowers 


VOICES  AND  FIGURES  IN  THE  DREAM 

COWBELLS  THE  FORM  OF  WHAT  is  MADH 

MOUNTAIN  AIR  BY  WORK 

FAR  VIEW  OF  ITALY  DEATH  BY  SLUMBER 

DISTANT  FLUME  OF  STEAM  DEATH  BY  DROWNING 

THINGS  IN  BOOKS  FLOWER  CHILDREN 

MOTH  CHILDREN  GOATHERD 

THREE  DANCING  YOUTHS  GOAT  BOYS 

THREE  DANCING  GIRLS  GOAT  GOD 

THE  FORMS  OF  WORKERS  THE  FORMS  OF  SLEBP 


SCENE   I 

It  it  just  after  sunset  of  an  August  evening.  The  scene 
is  a  room  in  a  mountain  hut,  furnished  only  with 
a  table,  benches,  and  a  low  broad  window  seat. 
Through  this  window  three  rocky  peaks  are  seen  by 
tlie  light  of  a  moon,  which  is  slowly  whitening  the  last 
hues  of  sunset.  An  oil  lamp  is  burning.  SEELCHEN, 
a  mountain  girl,  eighteen  years  old,  is  humming  a 
folk-song,  and  putting  away  in  a  cupboard  freshly 
washed  soup-bowls  and  glasses.  She  is  dressed  in 
a  tight-fitting  black  velvet  bodice,  square-cut  at  the 
neck,  and  partly  filled  in  with  a  gay  handkerchief, 
coloured  rose-pink,  blue,  and  golden,  like  the  alpen- 
rose,  the  gentian,  and  the  mountain  dandelion; 
alabaster  beads,  pale  as  edelweiss,  are  round  her 
throat;  her  stiffened,  white  linen  sleeves  finish  at 
the  elbow;  and  her  full  well-worn  skirt  is  of  gentian 
blue.  The  two  thick  plaits  of  her  hair  are  crossed, 
and  turned  round  her  head.  As  she  puts  away  the 
last  bowl,  there  is  a  knock;  and  LAMOND  opens  the 
outer  door.  He  is  young,  tanned,  and  good-looking, 
dressed  like  a  climber,  and  carries  a  plaid,  a  ruck- 
sack, and  an  ice-axe. 

LAMOND.  Good  evening! 

SEEIXIHEN.  Good  evening,  gentle  Sir! 
3 


4  THE  LITTLE  DREAM          sc.  i 

LAMOND.  My  name  is  Lamond.    I'm  very  late  I  fear. 

SEELCHEN.  Do  you  wish  to  sleep  here  ? 

LAMOND.  Please. 

SEELCHEN.  All  the  beds  are  full — it  is  a  pity.  I 
will  call  Mother. 

LAMOND.  I've  come  to  go  up  the  Great  Horn  at 
sunrise. 

SEELCHEN.  [Awed]  The  Great  Horn!  But  he  is 
impossible. 

LAMOND.  I  am  going  to  try  that. 

SEELCHEN.  There  is  the  Wine  Horn,  and  the  Cow 
Horn. 

LAMOND.  I  have  climbed  them. 

SEELCHEN.  But  he  is  so  dangerous — it  is  perhaps — 
death. 

LAMOND.  Oh!  that's  all  right!  One  must  take  one's 
chance. 

SEELCHEN.  And  father  has  hurt  his  foot.  For  guide, 
there  is  only  Hans  Felsman. 

LAMOND.  The  celebrated  Felsman  ? 

SEELCHEN.  [Nodding;  then  looking  at  him  with  ad- 
miration] Are  you  that  Herr  Lamond  who  has  climbed 
all  our  little  mountains  this  year  ? 

LAMOND.  All  but  that  big  fellow. 

SEELCHEN.  We  have  heard  of  you.  Will  you  not 
wait  a  day  for  father's  foot  ? 

LAMOND.  Ah!  no.     I  must  go  back  home  to-morrow. 

SEELCHEN.  The  gracious  Sir  is  in  a  hurry. 

LAMOND.  [Looking  at  her  intently]  Alas! 

SEELCHEN.  Are  you  from  London  ?    Is  it  very  big  ? 


sc.  i          THE  LITTLE  DREAM  5 

LAMOND.  Six  million  souls. 

SEELCHEN.  Oh!  [After  a  little  pause]  I  have  seen 
Cortina  twice. 

LAMOND.  Do  you  live  here  all  the  year  ? 

SEELCHEN.  In  winter  in  the  valley. 

LAMOND.  And  don't  you  want  to  see  the  world  ? 

SEELCHEN.  Sometimes.  [Going  to  a  door,  she  calls 
softly]  Hans!  [Then  pointing  to  another  door]  There 
are  seven  German  gentlemen  asleep  in  there! 

LAMOND.  Oh  God! 

SEELCHEN.  Please?  They  are  here  to  see  the  sun- 
rise. [She  picks  up  a  little  book  that  has  dropped  from, 
LAMOND'S  pocket]  I  have  read  several  books. 

LAMOND.  This  is  by  the  great  English  poet.  Do 
you  never  make  poetry  here,  and  dream  dreams,  among 
your  mountains  ? 

SEELCHEN.  [Slowly  shaking  her  head]  See !  It  is  the 
full  moon. 

While  they  stand  at  the  window  looking  at  the 
moon,  there  enters  a  lean,  well-built,  taciturn 
young  man  dressed  in  Loden. 

SEELCHEN.  Hans! 

FELSMAN.  [In  a  deep  voice]  The  gentleman  wishes  me  ? 

SEELCHEN.  [.^wed]  The  Great  Horn  for  to-morrow! 
[Whispering  to  him]  It  is  the  celebrated  London  one. 

FELSMAN.  The  Great  Horn  is  not  possible. 

LAMOND.  You  say  that?  And  you're  the  famous 
Felsman  ? 

FELSMAN.  [Grimly]  We  start  at  dawn. 

SEELCHEN.  It  is  the  first  time  for  years! 


6  THE  LITTLE  DREAM          sc.  i 

LAMOND.  [Placing  his  plaid  and  rucksack  on  the 
window  bench]  Can  I  sleep  here? 

SEELCHEN.  I  will  see;  perhaps — 

[She  runs  out  up  some  stairs] 

FELSMAN.  [Taking  blankets  from  the  cupboard  and 
spreading  them  on  the  window  seat]  So! 

As  he  goet  out  into  the  airt  SEELCHEN  comes 
slipping  in  again  with  a  lighted  candle. 

SEELCHEN.  There  is  still  one  bed.  This  is  too  hard 
for  you. 

LAMOND.  Oh!  thanks;  but  that's  all  right. 

SEELCHEN.  To  please  me! 

LAMOND.  May  I  ask  your  name? 

SEELCHEN.  Seelchen. 

LAMOND.  Little  soul,  that  means — doesn't  it?  To 
please  you  I  would  sleep  with  seven  German  gentlemen. 

SEELCHEN.  Oh!  no;  it  is  not  necessary. 

LAMOND.  [With  a  grave  bow]  At  your  service,  then. 
[He  prepares  to  go]. 

SEELCHEN.  Is  it  very  nice  in  towns,  in  the  World, 
where  you  come  from  ? 

LAMOND.  When  I'm  there  I  would  be  here;  but 
when  I'm  here  I  would  be  there. 

SEELCHEN.  [Clasping  her  hands]  That  is  like  me — 
but  I  am  always  here. 

LAMOND.  Ah!  yes;  there  is  no  one  like  you  in  towns. 

SEELCHEN.  In  two  places  one  cannot  be.  [Suddenly] 
In  the  towns  there  are  theatres,  and  there  is  beautiful 
fine  work,  and — dancing,  and — churches — and  trains — 
and  all  the  things  in  books — and — 


*c.  i          THE  LITTLE  DREAM  7 

LAMOND.  Misery. 

SEELCHEN.  But  there  is  life. 

LAMOND.  And  there  is  death. 

SEELCHEN.  To-morrow,  when  you  have  climbed — 
will  you  not  come  back  ? 

LAMOND.  No. 

SEELCHEN.  You  have  all  the  world;    and  I  have 
nothing. 

LAMOND.  Except  Felsman,  and  the  mountains. 

SEELCHEN.  It  is  not  good  to  eat  only  bread. 

LAMOND.  [Looking  at  her  hard]  I  would  like  to  eat 
you! 

SEELCHEN.  But  I  am  not  nice;    I  am  full  of  big 
wants — like  the  cheese  with  holes. 

LAMOND.  I  shall  come  again. 

SEELCHEN.  There  will  be  no  more  hard  mountains 
left  to  climb.     And  if  it  is  not  exciting,  you  do  not  care. 

LAMOND.  O  wise  little  soul! 

SEELCHEN.  No.    I  am  not  wise.    In  here  it  is  always 
aching. 

LAMOND.  For  the  moon  ? 

SEELCHEN.  Yes.  [Then  suddenly]  From  the  big  world 
you  will  remember? 

LAMOND.  [Taking  her  hand]  There  is  nothing  in  the 
big  world  so  sweet  as  this. 

SEELCHEN.  [Wisely]  But  there  is  the  big  world  itself. 

LAMOND.  May  I  kiss  you,  for  good-night  ? 

She  puts  her  face  forward;  and  he  kisses  her 
cheek,  and,  suddenly,  her  lips.  Then  as  she 
draws  away. 


8  THE  LITTLE  DREAM          so.  i 

LAMOND.  I  am  sorry,  little  soul. 
SEELCHEN.  That's  all  right! 

LAMOND.  [Taking  the  candle]  Dream  well!    Good- 
night! 

SEELCHEN.  [Softly]  Good-night! 
FEL/SMAN.  [Coming  in  from  the  air,  and  eyeing  them] 
It  is  cold — it  will  be  fine. 

LAMOND,  still  looking  back,  goes  up  the  stairs; 

and  FELSMAN  waits  for  him  to  pass. 
SEELCHEN.  [From  the  window  seat]  It  was  hard  for 
him  here,  I  thought. 

He  goes  up  to  her,  stays  a  moment  looking  downt 

then  bends  and  kisses  her  hungrily. 
SEELCHEN.  Art  thou  angry  ? 

He  does  not  answer,  but  turning  out  the  lampt 

goes  into  an  inner  room. 

SEELCHEN  sits  gazing  through  the  window  at 
the  peaks  bathed  in  full  moonlight.  Then, 
drawing  the  blankets  about  hert  she  snuggles 
down  on  the  window  seat. 

SEELCHEN.  [In  a  sleepy   voice]  They  kissed  me— 
both.    [She  sleeps] 

The  scene  falls  quite  dark. 


SCENE  II 

The  scene  is  slowly  illumined  as  by  dawn.  SEELCHEN  i* 
still  lying  on  the  window  seat.  She  sits  up,  freeing 
her  face  and  hands  from  the  blankets,  changing  the 
swathings  of  deep  sleep  for  the  filmy  coverings  of  a 
dream.  The  wall  of  the  hut  has  vanished;  there  is 
nothing  between  her  and  the  three  mountains  veiled 
in  mist,  save  a  trough  of  darkness.  Then  as  the 
peaks  of  the  mountains  brighten,  they  are  seen  to 
have  great  faces. 

SEELCHEN.  Oh!    They  have  faces! 

The  face  of  THE  WINE  HORN  is  the  profile  of 

a  beardless  youth.     The  face  of  THE  Cow 

HORN  is  that  of  a  mountain  shepherd,  solemn, 

and  brown,  with  fierce  black  eyes,  and  a  black 

beard.    Between  them  THE  GREAT  HORN, 

whose  hair  is  of  snow,  has  a  high  beardless 

visage,  as  of  carved  bronze,  like  a  male  sphinx, 

serene,  without  cruelty.     Far  down  below  the 

faces  of  the  peaks,  above  the  trough  of  darkness, 

are  peeping  out  the  four  little  heads  of  the 

flowers  of  EDELWEISS,  and  GENTIAN,  MOUN- 

1  i  TAIN  DANDELION,  and  ALPENROSE;  on  their 

,o  '  heads  are  crowns,  made  of  their  several  flowers, 

9 


10  THE   LITTLE   DREAM          sc.  n 

all  powdered  with  dewdrops;  and  when  THE 
FLOWERS  lift  their  child-faces  little  tinkling 
bells  ring. 
All  around  the  peaks  there  is  nothing  bid  blue 

sky. 

EDELWEISS.     [In  a  tiny  voice]  Would  you  ?    Would 
you?    Would  you?    Ah!  ha! 

GENTIAN,  M.  DANDELION,  ALPENROSE  [With  their 
bells  ringing  enviously]  Oo-oo-oo! 

From  behind  the  Cow  HORN  are  heard  the 

voices  of  COWBELLS  and  MOUNTAIN  AIR: 
"  Clinkel-clink!    Clinkel-clink!  " 
"Mountain  air!  Mountain  air!" 

From  behind  THE  WINE  HORN  rise  the  rival 
voices  of  VIEW  OP  ITALY,  FLUME  OF  STEAM, 
and  THINGS  IN  BOOKS: 
"/  am  Italy!  Italy!" 
"See  me — steam  in  the  distance!" 
"O  remember  the  things  in  books!" 

And  all  call  out  together,  very  softly,  with  THE 
FLOWERS  ringing  their  bells.     Then  far  away 
like  an  echo  comes  a  sighing: 
"Mountain  air!  Mountain  air!" 

And  suddenly  the  Peak  of  THE  Cow  HORX 

speaks  in  a  voice  as  of  one  unaccustomed. 
THE  Cow  HORN.  Amongst  kine  and  my  black-brown 
sheep  I  live;  I  am  silence,  and  monotony;  I  am  the 
solemn  hills.  I  am  fierceness,  and  the  mountain  wind; 
clean  pasture,  and  wild  rest.  Look  in  ray  eyes,  love 
in,-  alone.' 


sc.  H          THE   LITTLE   DREAM  11 

SEELCHEN.  [Breathless]  The  Cow  Horn!  He  is 
speaking — for  Felsman  and  the  mountains.  It  is  the 
half  of  my  heart! 

THE  FLOWERS  laugh  happily. 

THE  Cow  HORN.  I  stalk  the  eternal  hills — I  drink 
the  mountain  snows.     My  eyes  are  the  colour  of  burned 
wine;    in  them  lives  melancholy.    The  lowing  of  the 
kine,  the  wind,  the  sound  of  falling  rocks,  the  running 
of  the  torrents;   no  other  talk  know  I.    Thoughts  sim- 
ple, and  blood  hot,  strength  huge — the  cloak  of  gravity. 
SEELCHEN.  Yes,  yes!  I  want  him.    He  is  strong! 
The  voices  of  COWBELLS  and  MOUNTAIN  AIB 

cry  out  together: 
"  Clinkel-clinkl  Clinkel-clink!  " 
"Mountain  air!  Mountain  air!" 
THE  Cow  HORN.  Little  soul!    Hold  to  me!    Love 
me!  Live  with  me  under  the  stars! 

SEELCHEN.  [Beloiv  her  breath]  I  am  afraid. 

And  suddenly  the  Peak  of  THE  WINE  HORN 

spejalcs  in  a  youth's  voice. 

THE  WINE  HORN.  I  am  the  will  o'  the  wisp  that 
dances  thro'  the  streets;  I  am  the  cooing  dove  of 
Towns,  from  the  plane  trees  and  the  chestnuts'  shade. 
From  day  to  day  all  changes,  where  I  burn  my  incense 
to  my  thousand  little  gods.  In  white  palaces  I  dwell, 
and  passionate  dark  alleys.  The  life  of  men  in  crowds 
is  mine — of  lamplight  in  the  streets  at  dawn.  [Softly] 
I  have  a  thousand  loves,  and  never  one  too  long;  for 
I  am  nimbler  than  your  heifers  playing  in  the  sun- 
shine. 


12  THE  LITTLE  DREAM         ec.  n 

THE  FLOWERS,  ringing  in  alarm,  cry: 
"We  know  them!" 

THE  WINE  HORN.  I  hear  the  rustlings  of  the  birth 
and  death  of  pleasure;  and  the  rattling  of  swift  wheels. 
I  hear  the  hungry  oaths  of  men;  and  love  kisses  in  the 
airless  night.  Without  me,  little  soul,  you  starve  and 
die. 

SEELCHEN.  He  is  speaking  for  the  gentle  Sir,  and 
the  big  world  of  the  Town.  It  pulls  my  heart. 

THE  WINE  HORN.  My  thoughts  surpass  in  number 
the  flowers  in  your  meadows;  they  fly  more  swiftly 
than  your  eagles  on  the  wind.  I  drink  the  wine  of 
aspiration,  and  the  drug  of  disillusion.  Thus  am  I 
never  dull! 

The  voices  of  VIEW  OF  ITALY,  FLUME  OF  STEAM, 
and  THINGS  IN  BOOKS  are  heard  catting  out 
together: 

"I  am  Italy,  Italy!" 
"See  me — steam  in  the  distance!" 
"O  remember,  remember!" 

THE  WINE  HORN.  Love  me,  little  soul!    I  paint  life 
fifty  colours.    I  make  a  thousand  pretty  things!    I 
twine  about  your  heart! 
SEELCHEN.  He  is  honey! 

THE  FLOWERS  ring  their  bells  jealously  and  cry: 
"Bitter!  Bitter!" 

THE  Cow  HORN.  Stay  with  me,  Seelchen!  I  wake 
thee  with  the  crystal  air. 

The  voices  of  COWBELLS  and  MOUNTAIN  AIR 
sing  oni  Jar  away: 


sc.  n         THE  LITTLE  DREAM  13 

"  Clinkel-clink!  Clinkel-clink! ' ' 
"Mountain  air!  Mountain  airl" 

And  THE  FLOWERS  laugh  happily. 
THE  WINE  HORN.  Come  with  me,  Seelchen!    My 
fan,  Variety,  shall  wake  you! 

The  voices  of  VIEW  OF  ITALY,  FLUME  OF  STEAM, 

and  THINGS  IN  BOOKS  chant  softly: 
"I  am  Italy!  Italy!" 
"See  me — steam  in  the  distance!" 
"O  remember,  remember!" 

And  THE  FLOWERS  moan. 
SEELCHEN.  [In  grief]  My  heart!    It  is  torn! 
THE  WINE  HORN.  With  me,  little  soul,  you  shall  race 
in  the  streets,  and  peep  at  all  secrets.    We  will  hold 
hands,  and  fly  like  the  thistle-down. 
M.  DANDELION.  My  puff-balls  fly  faster! 
THE  WINE  HORN.  I  will  show  you  the  sea. 
GENTIAN.  My  blue  is  deeper! 
THE  WINE  HORN.  I  will  shower  on  you  blushes. 
ALPENROSE.  I  can  blush  redder! 
THE  WINE  HORN.  Little  soul,  listen!    My  Jewels! 
Silk!  Velvet! 

EDELWEISS.  I  am  softer  than  velvet! 
THE  WINE  HORN.  [Proudly]  My  wonderful  rags! 
THE  FLOWERS.  [Moaning]  Of  those  we  have  none. 
SEELCHEN.  He  has  all  things. 

THE  Cow  HORN.  Mine  are  the  c-louds  with  the  dark 
silvered  wings;  mine  are  the  rocks  on  fire  with  the  sun; 
and  the  dewdrops  cooler  than  pearls.  Away  from  my 


14  THE   LITTLE   DREAM          sc.  n 

breath  of  snow  and  sweet  grass,  thou  wilt  droop,  little 
soul. 

THE  WINE  HORN.  The  dark  Clove  is  my  fragrance! 
THE  FLOWERS  ring  eagerly,  and  turning  up  their 

faces,  cry: 
"We  too,  smell  sweet." 

But  the  roices  of  VIEW  OP  ITALY,  FLUME  OF 
STEAM,  and  THINGS  IN  BOOKS  cry  out: 

"I  am  Italy!  Italy!" 

"See  me — steam  in  the  distance!" 

"O  remember,  remember!" 

SEELCHEN.  [Distracted}  Oh!   it  is  hard! 
THE  Cow  HORN.  /  will  never  desert  thee. 
THE  WINE  HORN.  A  hundred  times  /  will  desert 
you,  a  hundred  times  come  back,  and  kiss  you. 
SEELCHEN.  [Whispering]  Peace  for  my  heart! 
THE  Cow  HORN.  With  me  thou  shalt  lie  on  the 
warm  wild  thyme. 

THE  FLOWERS  laugh  happily. 
THE  WINE  HORN.  With  me  you  shall  lie  on  a  bed 
of  dove's  feathers. 

THE  FLOWERS  moan. 

THE  WINE  HORN.  I  will  give  you  old  wine. 
THE  Cow  HORN.  /  will  give  thee  new  milk. 
THE  WINE  HORN.  Hear  my  song! 

From  Jar  away  comes  the  sound  as  of  man- 
dolins. 

SEELCHEN.  [Clasping    her    breast]  My    heart — it  b 
leaving  me! 


sc.  ii          THE   LITTLE   DREAM  15 

THE  Cow  HORN.  Hear  my  song! 

From  the  distance  floats  the  piping  of  a  Shep- 
herd's reed. 

SEELCHEN.  [Curving  her  hand  at  her  ears]  The  pip- 
ing! Ah! 

THE  Cow  HORN.  Stay  with  me,  Seelchen! 

THE  WINE  HORN.  Come  with  me,  Seelchen! 

THE  Cow  HORN.  I  give  thee  certainty  1 

THE  WINE  HORN.  I  give  you  chance! 

THE  Cow  HORN.  I  give  thee  peace. 

THE  WINE  HORN.  I  give  you  change. 

THE  Cow  HORN.  I  give  thee  stillness. 

THE  WINE  HORN.  I  give  you  voice. 

THE  Cow  HORN.  I  give  thee  one  love. 

THE  WINE  HORN.  I  give  you  many. 

SEELCHEN.  [As  if  the  words  were  torn  from  her  heart] 
Both,  both— I  will  love! 

And  suddenly  the  Peak  of  THE  GREAT  HORN  speaks. 

THE  GREAT  HORN.  And  both  thou  shall  love,  little 
soul!  Thou  shall  lie  on  the  hills  with  Silence;  and 
dance  in  the  cities  with  Knowledge.  Both  shall  possess 
thee!  The  sun  and  the  moon  on  the  mountains  shall 
burn  thee;  the  lamps  of  the  town  singe  thy  wings,  small 
Moth!  Each  shall  seem  all  the  world  to  thee,  each 
shall  seem  as  thy  grave!  Thy  heart  is  a  feather  blown 
from  one  mouth  to  the  other.  But  be  not  afraid! 
For  the  life  of  a  man  is  for  all  loves  in  turn.  'Tis  a 
little  raft  moored,  then  sailing  out  into  the  blue;  a  tune 
caught  in  a  hush,  then  whispering  on;  a  new-born 


16  THE  LITTLE  DREAM          sc.  H 

babe,  half  courage  and  half  sleep.  There  is  a  hidden 
rhythm.  Change,  Quietude.  Chance,  Certainty.  The 
One,  The  Many.  Burn  on — thou  pretty  flame,  trying 
to  eat  the  world!  Thou  shalt  come  to  me  at  last,  my 
little  soul! 

THE  VOICES  and  THE  FLOWER-BELLS  peal  out. 
SEELCHEN,  enraptured,  stretches  her  arms  to 
embrace  the  sight  and  sound,  but  all  fades 
slowly  into  dark  sleep. 


SCENE  III 

The  dark  scene  again  becomes  glamorous.    SEELCHEN  w 
seen  with  her  hand  stretched  out  towards  the  Piazza 
of  a  little  town,  with  a  plane  tree  on  one  side,  a 
wall  on  the  other,  and  from  the  open  doorway  of 
an  Inn  a  pale  path  of  light.     Over  the  Inn  hangs 
a  full  golden  moon.     Against  the  watt,  under  the 
glimmer  of  a  lamp,  leans  a  youth  with  the  face  of 
THE  WINE  HORN,  in  a  crimson  cloak,  thrumming 
a  mandolin,  and  singing: 
"Little  star  soul 
Through  the  frost  fields  of  night 
Roaming  alone,  disconsolate — • 
From  out  the  cold 
I  call  thee  in — 
Striking  my  dark  mandolin — 
Beneath  this  moon  of  gold." 
From  the  Inn  comes  a  burst  of  laughter^  and  the 

sound  of  dancing. 
SEELCHEN.  [Whispering]  It  is  the  big  world! 

The  Youth  of  THE  WINE  HORN  sings  on: 
"Pretty  grey  moth, 
Where  the  strange  candles  shine. 
Seeking  for  warmth,  so  desperate— 
17 


18  THE   LITTLE   DREAM         sc.  m 

Ah!  fluttering  dove 
I  bid  thee  win — 
Striking  my  dark  mandolin — 
The  crimson  flume  of  love" 

SEELCHBN.  [Gazing  enraptured  at  the  Inn]  They  are 
dancing! 

As  SHE  speaks,  from  either  side  come  moth- 
children,  meeting  and  fluttering  up  the  path 
of  light  to  the  Inn  doorway;  then  wheel- 
ing aside,  they  form  again,  and  again  flutter 
forward. 

SEELCHEN.  [Holding  out  her  hands]  They  are  real — 
Their  wings  are  windy. 

The  Youth  of  THE  WINE  HORN  sings  on: 
"  Lips  of  my  song, 
To  the  white  maiden's  heart 
Go  ye,  and  whisper,  passionate, 
These  words  that  burn — 
*0  listening  one! 
Love  that  flieth  past  is  gone 
Nor  ever  may  return!" 

SEELCHEN  runs  towards  him — but  the  light 
above  him  fades;  he  has  become  shadow.  She 
turns  bewildered  to  the  dancing  moth-children 
— but  they  vanish  before  her.  At  the  door  of 
the  Inn  stands  LAMOND  in  a  dark  cloak. 
SEELCHEN.  It  is  youl 

LAMOND.  Without  my  little  soul  I  am  cold.     Come! 
[He  holds  out  his  arms  to  her] 


sc.  in         THE   LITTLE   DREAM  19 

SEELCHEN.  Shall  I  be  safe  ? 

LAMOND.  What  is  safety?  Are  you  safe  in  your 
mountains  ? 

SEELCHEN.  Where  am  I,  here  ? 

LAMOND.  The  Town. 

Smiling  he  points  to  the  doorway.  And  silent 
as  shadows  there  come  dancing  out,  two  by 
two,  two  girls  and  two  youths.  The  first 
girl  is  dressed  in  white  satin  and  jewels;  and 
the  first  youth  in  black  velvet.  The  second 
girl  is  in  rags,  and  a  shawl;  and  the  second 
youth  in  shirt  and  corduroys.  They  dance 
gravely,  each  couple  as  if  in  a  world  apart. 

SEELCHEN.  [Whispering]  In  the  mountains  all  dance 
together.  Do  they  never  change  partners? 

LAMOND.  How  could  they,  little  one?  Those  are 
rich,  these  poor.  But  see! 

A  CORYBANTIC  COUPLE  come  dancing  forth. 
The  girl  has  bare  limbs,  a  fame-coloured 
shift,  and  hair  bound  with  red  flowers;  the 
youth  wears  a  panther-skin.  They  pursue 
not  only  each  other,  but  the  oilier  girls  and 
youths.  For  a  moment  all  is  a  furious  med- 
ley. Then  the  Corybantic  Couple  vanish  into 
the  Inn,  and  the  first  tico  couples  are  left, 
slowly,  solemnly  dancing,  apart  from  each 
other  as  before. 

SEELCHEN.  [Shuddering]  Shall  I  one  day  dance  like 
that? 


20  THE   LITTLE   DREAM         so.  in 

The  Youth  of  THE  WINE  HORN  appears  again 
beneath  the  lamp.  He  strikes  a  loud  chord; 
then  as  SEELCHEN  moves  towards  that  sound 
the  lamp  goes  out;  there  is  again  only  blue 
shadow;  but  the  couples  have  disappeared 
into  the  Inn,  and  the  doorway  has  grown 
dark. 

SEELCHEN.  Ah!  What  I  do  not  like,  he  will  not  let 
me  see. 

LAMOND.  Will  you  not  come,  then,  little  soul? 
SEELCHEN.  Always  to  dance  ? 
LAMOND.  Not  so! 

THE  SHUTTERS  of  the  houses  are  suddenly 
thrown  wide.  In  a  lighted  room  on  one  side 
of  the  Inn  are  seen  two  pale  men  and  a 
woman,  amongst  many  clicking  machines. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  Inn,  in  a  forge,  are 
visible  two  women  and  a  man,  but  half 
clothed,  making  chains. 

SEELCHEN.  [Recoiling  from  both  sights,  in  turn]  How 
sad  they  look — all!    What  are  they  making? 

In  the  dark  doorway  of  the  Inn  a  light  shines 
out,  and  in  it  is  seen  a  figure,  visible  only 
from  the  waist  up,  clad  in  gold-cloth  stud- 
ded with  jewels,  with  a  flushed  complacent 
face,  holding  in  one  hand  a  glass  of  golden 
wine. 

SEELCHEN.  It  is  beautiful.    What  is  it  ? 

LAMOND.  Luxury. 


so.  in         THE   LITTLE   DREAM  21 

SEELCHEN.  What  is  it  standing  on  ?    I  cannot  see. 
Unseen,  THE  WINE  HORN'S  mandolin  twangs 

oid. 

LAMOND.  For  that  do  not  look,  little  soul 
SEELCHEN.  Can  it  not  walk  ?    [He  shakes  his  head] 
Is  that  all  they  make  here  with  their  sadness  ? 

But  again  the  mandolin  twangs  out;  the  shutters 
fall  over  the  houses;  the  door  of  the  Inn  grows 
dark. 

LAMOND.  What  is  it,  then,  you  would  have?  Is  it 
learning?  There  are  books  here,  that,  piled  on  each 
other,  would  reach  to  the  stars!  [But  SEELCHEN  shakes 
her  head}  There  is  religion  so  deep  that  no  man  knows 
what  it  means.  [But  SEELCHEN  shakes  her  head]  There 
is  religion  so  shallow,  you  may  have  it  by  turning  a 
handle.  We  have  everything. 

SEELCHEN.  Is  God  here? 

LAMOND.  Who  knows?  Is  God  with  your  goats? 
[But  SEELCHEN  shakes  her  head]  What  then  do  you 
want? 

SEELCHEN.  Life. 

The  mandolin  twangs  out. 

LAMOND.  [Pointing  to  his  breast]  There  is  but  one 
road  to  life — 

SEELCHEN.  Ah!  but  I  do  not  love. 

LAMOND.  When  a  feather  flies,  is  it  not  loving  the 
wind — the  unknown  ?  When  the  day  brings  not  new 
things,  we  are  children  of  sorrow.  If  darkness  and 
light  did  not  change,  could  we  breathe?  Child!  To 


22  THE   LITTLE   DREAM         sc.  m 

live  is  to  love,  to  love  is  to  live — seeking  for  wonder. 
[And  as  she  draws  nearer]  See!  To  love  is  to  peer  over 
the  edge,  and,  spying  the  little  grey  flower,  to  climb 
down!  It  has  wings;  it  has  flown — again  you  must 
climb;  it  shivers,  'tis  but  air  in  your  hand — you  must 
crawl,  you  must  cling,  you  must  leap,  and  still  it  is 
there  and  not  there — for  the  grey  flower  flits  like  a 
moth,  and  the  wind  of  its  wings  is  all  you  shall  catch. 
But  your  eyes  shall  be  shining,  your  cheeks  shall  be 
burning,  your  breast  shall  be  panting — Ah!  little  heart! 
[The  scene  falls  darker]  And  when  the  night  comes — 
there  it  is  still,  thistledown  blown  on  the  dark,  and  your 
white  hands  will  reach  for  it,  and  your  honey  breath 
waft  it,  and  never,  never,  shall  you  grasp  that  wanton 
thing — but  life  shall  be  lovely.  [His  voice  dies  to  a 
whisper.  He  stretches  out  his  arms] 

SEELCHEN.  [Touching  his  breast]  I  will  come. 
LAMOND.  [Drawing  her  to  the  dark  doorway]  Love  me! 
SEELCHEN.  I  love! 

The  mandolin  twangs  out,  the  doorway  for  a 
moment  is  all  glamorous;  and  they  pass 
through.  Illumined  by  the  glimmer  of  the 
lamp  the  Youth  of  THE  WINE  HORN  is  seen 
again.  And  slowly  to  the  chords  of  his  man- 
dolin he  begins  to  sing: 

**  The  windy  hours  through  darkness  fly — 
Canst  hear  them,  little  heart  ? 
New  loves  are  born,  and  old  loves  die, 
And  kissing  lips  must  part. 


sc.  in         THE   LITTLE   DREAM  23 

The  dusky  bees  of  passing  years — 
Canst  see  them,  soul  of  mine — 
From  flower  and  flower  supping  tears, 
And  pale  sweet  honey  wine  ? 

[His  voice  grows  strange  and  passionate^ 

O  flame  that  treads  the  marsh  of  time, 
Flitting  for  ever  low, 

Where,  through  the  black  enchanted  slime, 
We,  desperate,  following  go- 
Untimely  fire,  we  bid  thee  stay! 
Into  dark  air  above, 
The  golden  gipsy  thins  away— 
So  has  it  been  with  love!" 

While  he  is  singing,  the  moon  grows  pale,  and 
dies.  It  falls  dark,  save  for  the  glimmer  of 
the  lamp  beneath  which  he  stands.  But  as 
his  song  ends,  the  dawn  breaks  over  the  houses, 
the  lamp  goes  out — THE  WINE  HORN  becomes 
shadow.  Then  from  the  doorway  of  the  Inn, 
in  the  chill  grey  light  SEELCHEN  comes  forth. 
She  is  pale,  as  if  wan  with  living;  her  eyes 
like  pitch  against  the  powdery  whiteness  of 
her  face. 

SEELCHEN.  My  heart  is  old. 

But  as  she  speaks,  from  far  away  is  heard  a 
faint  chiming  of  COWBELLS;  and  while  she 
stands  listening,  LAMOND  appears  in  the  door- 
way of  the  Inn. 


24  THE   LITTLE   DREAM         sc.  m 

LAMOND.  Little  soul! 

SEELCHEN.  You!  Always  you! 

LAMOND.  I  have  new  wonders. 

SEELCHEN.  [Mournfully]  No. 

LAMOND.  I  swear  it!  You  have  not  tired  of  me, 
that  am  never  the  same  ?  It  cannot  be. 

SEELCHEN.  Listen! 

The  chime  of  THE  COWBELLS  is  heard  again. 

LAMOND.  [Jealously]  The  music  of  dull  sleep!  Has 
life,  then,  with  me  been  sorrow? 

SEELCHEN.  I  do  not  regret. 

LAMOND.  Come! 

SEELCHEN.  [Pointing  to  her  breast]  The  bird  is  tired 
with  flying.  [Touching  her  lips]  The  flowers  have  no 
dew. 

LAMOND.  Would  you  leave  me  ? 

SEELCHEN.  See! 

There,  in  a  streak  of  the  dawn,  against  the  plane 
tree  is  seen  the  Shepherd  of  THE  Cow  HORN, 
standing  wrapped  in  his  mountain  cloak. 

LAMOND.  What  is  it  ? 
SEELCHEN.  He! 

LAMOND.  There  is  nothing.  [He  holds  her  fast]  I 
have  shown  you  the  marvels  of  my  town — the  gay,  the 
bitter  wonders.  We  have  known  life.  If  with  you  I 
may  no  longer  live,  then  let  us  die!  See!  Here  are 
iweet  Deaths  by  Slumber  and  by  Drowning! 

The  mandolin  twangs  out,  and  from  the  dim 
doorway  of  the  Inn  come  forth  the  shadowy 


sc.  in         THE   LITTLE  DREAM  25 

forms,  DEATH  BY  SLUMBER,  and  DEATH  BY 
DROWNING,  who  to  a  ghostly  twanging  of 
mandolins  dance  slowly  towards  SEELCHEN, 
stand  smiling  at  her,  and  as  slowly  dance 
away. 

SEELCHEN.  [Following]  Yes.  They  are  good  and 
*weet. 

While  she  moves  towards  the  Inn,  LAMOND'S 
face  becomes  transfigured  with  joy.  But  just 
as  she  reaches  the  doorway,  there  is  a  distant 
chiming  of  bells  and  blowing  of  pipes,  and 
the  Shepherd  of  THE  Cow  HORN  sings: 

'*  To  the  wild  grass  come,  and  the  dull  far  roar 
Of  the  falling  rock;  to  the  flowery  meads 
Of  thy  mountain  home,  where  the  eagles  soar, 
And  the  grizzled  flock  in  the  sunshine  feeds. 
To  the  Alp,  where  I,  in  the  pale  light  crowned 
With  the  moon's  thin  horns,  to  my  pasture  roam; 
To  the  silent  sky,  and  the  wistful  sound 
Of  the  rosy  dawns — my  daughter,  come!" 

While  HE  sings,  the  sun  has  risen;  and  SEEL- 
CHEN has  turned,  with  parted  lips,  and  hands 
stretched  out;  and  the  forms  of  death  have 
vanished. 

SEELCHEN.  I  come. 

LAMOND.  [Clasping  her  knees]  Little  soul!  Must  I 
then  die,  like  a  gnat  when  the  sun  goes  down  ?  With- 
out you  I  am  nothing. 


26  THE  LITTLE   DREAM        sc.  HI 

SEELCHEN.  [Releasing    herself\  Poor    heart — I    am 
gone! 

LAMOND.  It  is  dark.     [He  covers  his  face  with  his 
cloak]. 

Then  as  SEELCHEN  reaches  the  Shepherd  of  THE 
Cow  HORN,  there  is  blown  a  long  note  of  a 
pipe;  the  scene  falls  back;  and  there  rises 
a  far,  continual,  mingled  sound  of  Cowbells, 
and  Flower  Bells,  and  Pipes. 


SCENE  IV 

The  scene  slowly  brightens  with  the  misty  flush  of  dawn. 
SEELCHEN  stands  on  a  green  alp,  with  all  around, 
nothing  but  blue  sky.  A  slip  of  a  crescent  moon  is 
lying  on  her  back.  On  a  low  rock  sits  a  brown- 
faced  GOATHERD  blowing  on  a  pipe,  and  the  four 
Flower-children  are  dancing  in  their  shifts  of  grey- 
white,  and  blue,  rose-pink,  and  burnt-gold.  Their 
bells  are  ringing,  as  they  pelt  each  other  with 
flowers  of  their  own  colours;  and  each  in  turn, 
wheeling,  flings  one  flower  at  SEELCHEN,  who  puts 
them  to  her  lips  and  eyes. 

SEELCHEN.  The  dew!  [She  moves  towards  the  rock] 
Goatherd! 

But  THE  FLOWERS  encircle  him;  and  when  they 
wheel  away  lie  has  vanished.  She  turns  to 
THE  FLOWERS,  but  they  too  vanish.  The 
veils  of  mist  are  rising. 

SEELCHEN.  Gone!  [She  rubs  her  eyes;  then  turning 
once  more  to  the  rock,  sees  FELSMAN  standing  tJiere,  with 
his  arms  folded]  Thou! 

FELSMAN.  So  thou  hast  come — like  a  sick  heifer  to 
be  healed.  Was  it  good  in  the  Town — that  kept  thee 
so  long? 

SEELCHEN.  I  do  not  regret. 
27 


28  THE   LITTLE   DREAM         sc.  n 

FELSMAN.  Why  then  return  ? 

SEELCHEN.  I  was  tired. 

FELSMAN.  Never  again  shalt  thou  go  from  me! 

SEELCHEN.  [Mocking]  With   what  wilt   thou   keep 
me? 

FELSMAN.  [Grasping  her]  Thus. 

SEELCHEN.  I  have  known  Change — I  am  no  timid 
maid. 

FELSMAN.  [Moodily]  Aye,  thou  art  different.    Thine 
eyes  are  hollow — thou  art  white-faced. 

SEELCHEN.  [Still  mocJcing]  Then  what  hast  thou  here 
that  shall  keep  me? 

FELSMAN.  The  sun. 

SEELCHEN.  To  burn  me. 

FELSMAN.  The  air. 

There  is  a  faint  wailing  of  wind. 

SEELCHEN.  To  freeze  me. 

FELSMAN.  The  silence. 

The  noise  of  the  wind  dies  away. 

SEELCHEN.  Yes,  it  is  lonely. 

FELSMAN.  Wait!   And  the  flowers  shall  dance  to  thee. 

And  to  a  ringing  of  their  bells,  THE  FLOWERS 
come  dancing;  till,  one  by  one,  tliey  cease,  and 
sink  down,  nodding,  falling  asleep. 

SEELCHEN.  See!  Even  they  grow  sleepy  here! 
FELSMAN.  I  will  call  the  goats  to  wake  them. 

THE  GOATHERD  is  seen  again  sitting  upright 
on  his  rock  and  piping.  And  there  come 
jour  little  brown,  wild-eyed,  naked  Boys,  with 


3c.  iv         THE   LITTLE   DREAM  29 

Goat's  legs  and  feet,  who  dance  gravely  in 
and  out  of  The  Sleeping  Flowers;  and  THE 
FLOWERS  wake,  spring  up,  and  fly.     Till 
each  Goat,  catching  his  flower  has  vanished, 
and  THE  GOATHERD  has  ceased  to  pipe,  and 
lies  motionless  again  on  his  rock. 
FELSMAN.    Love  me! 
SEELGIHEN.  Thou  art  rude! 
FELSMAN.  Love  me! 
SEELCHEN.  Thou  art  grim! 

FELSMAN.  Aye,  I  have  no  silver  tongue.  Listen! 
This  is  my  voice.  [Sweeping  his  arm  round  all  the  still 
alp]  It  is  quiet.  From  dawn  to  the  first  star  all  is  fast. 
[Laying  his  hand  on  her  heart]  And  the  wings  of  the 
bird  shall  be  still. 

SEELCHEN.  [Touching  his  eyes]  Thine  eyes  are  fierce. 
In  them  I  see  the  wild  beasts  crouching.  In  them  1 
see  the  distance.  Are  they  always  fierce  ? 
FELSMAN.  Never — to  look  on  thee,  my  flower. 
SEELCHEN.  [Touching  his  hands]  Thy  hands  are 
rough  to  pluck  flowers.  [She  breaks  away  from  him  to 
the  rock  where  THE  GOATHERD  is  lying]  See!  Nothing 
moves!  The  very  day  stands  still.  Boy!  [But  THE 
GOATHERD  neither  stirs  nor  answers]  He  is  lost  in  the 
blue.  [Passionately]  Boy!  He  will  not  answer  me.  No 
one  will  answer  me  here. 

FELSMAN.  [With  fierce  longing]  Am  7  then  no  one  ? 
SEELCHEN.  Thou? 

[The  scene  darkens  with  evening] 


30  THE  LITTLE  DREAM         sc.  iv 

See!  Sleep  has  stolen  the  day!    It  is  night  already. 

There  come  the  female  shadow  forms  of  SLEEP, 
in  grey  cobweb  garments,  waving  their  arms 
drowsily,  wheeling  round  her. 
SEELCHEN.  Are  you  Sleep?    Dear  Sleep! 

Smiling,  she  holds  out  her  arms  to  FELSMAN. 
He  takes  her  swaying  form.  They  vanish, 
encircled  by  the  forms  of  SLEEP.  It  is  dark, 
save  for  the  light  of  the  thin  horned  moon 
suddenly  grown  bright.  Then  on  his  rock, 
to  a  faint  piping  THE  GOATHERD  sings: 
"My  goat,  my  little  speckled  one, 

My  yellow-eyed,  sweet-smelling, 

Let  moon  and  wind  and  golden  sun 

And  stars  beyond  all  telling 

Make,  every  day,  a  sweeter  grass, 

And  multiply  thy  leaping! 

And  may  the  mountain  foxes  pass 

And  never  scent  thee  sleeping! 

Oh!  Let  my  pipe  be  clear  and  farf 

And  let  me  find  sweet  water! 

No  hawk,  nor  udder-seeking  jar 

Come  near  thee,  little  daughter! 

May  fiery  rocks  defend,  at  noon, 

Thy  tender  feet  from  slipping! 

Oh!  hear  my  prayer  beneath  the  moon- 
Great  Master,  Goat-God — skipping!" 

There  passes  in  the  thin  moonlight  the  Goat-God 
Pan;  and  with  a  long  wail  of  the  pipe  THE 


sc.  iv          THE   LITTLE   DREAM  31 

GOATHERD  BOY  is  silent.     Then  the  moon 
fades,  and  all  is  black;    till,  in  the  faint 
grisly  light  of  the  false  dawn  creeping  up, 
SEELCHEN  is  seen  rising  from  the  side  of  the 
sleeping  FELSMAN.    THE   GOATHERD   BOY 
has  gone;  but  by  the  rock  stands  the  Shepherd 
of  THE  Cow  HORN  in  his  cloak. 
SEELCHEN.  Years,  years  I  have  slept.     My  spirit  is 
hungry.    [Then  as  she  sees  the  Shepherd  of  THE  Cow 
HORN  standing  there]  I  know  thee  now — Life  of  the 
earth — the  smell  of  thee,  the  sight  of  thee,  the  taste 
of  thee,  and  all  thy  music.     I  have  passed  thee  and 
gone  by.  [She  moves  away] 

FELSMAN.  [Waking]  Where  wouldst  thou  go? 
SEELCHEN.  To  the  edge  of  the  world. 
FELSMAN.  [Rising  and  trying  to  stay  her]  Thou  shall 
not  leave  me! 

[But  against  her  smiling  gesture  he  struggles  as 

though  against  solidity] 
SEELCHEN.  Friend!    The  time  is  on  me. 
FELSMAN.  Were  my  kisses,  then,  too  rude?    Was  I 
too  dull  ? 

SEELCHEN.  I  do  not  regret. 

The  Youth  of  THE  WINE  HORN  is  seen  sud- 
denly standing  opposite  the  motionless  Shep- 
herd of  THE  Cow  HORN;  and  his  mandolin 
twangs  out. 

FELSMAN.  The  cursed  music  of  the  Town!  Is  it 
back  to  him  thou  wilt  go?  [Groping  for  sight  of  the 
hated  figure]  I  cannot  see. 


32  THE   LITTLE   DREAM  sc  iv 

SEELCHEN.  Fear  not!    I  go  ever  onward. 
FELSMAN.  Do  not  leave  me  to  the  wind  in  the  rocks! 
Without  thee  love  is  dead,  and  I  must  die. 
SEELCHEN.  Poor  heart!    I  am  gone. 
FELSMAN.  [Crouching  against  the  rock]  It  is  cold. 
At  the  blowing  of  the  Shepherd's  pipe,  THE  Cow 
HORN  stretches  forth  his  hand  to  her.     The 
mandolin  twangs  out,  and  THE  WINE  HORN 
holds  out  his  hand.     She  stands  unmoving. 
SEELCHEN.  Companions,  I  must  go.    In  a  moment 
it  will  be  dawn. 

J.n  silence  THE  Cow  HORN  and  THE  WINE 
HORN  cover  their  faces.  The  false  dawn  dies. 
It  falls  quite  dark. 


SCENE  V 

Then  a  faint  glow  stealing  up,  lights  the  snowy  head  of 
THE  GREAT  HORN,  and  streams  forth  on  SEELCHEN. 
To  either  side  of  that  path  of  light,  like  shadows, 
THE  Cow  HORN  and  THE  WINE  HORN  stand  with 
cloaked  heads. 
SEELCHEN.  Great  One!  I  come! 

The  Peak  of  THE  GREAT  HORN  speaks  in  a 
far-away    voice,    growing,    with    the    light, 
clearer  and  stronger. 
Wandering  flame,  thou  restless  fever 
Burning  all  things,  regretting  none; 
The  winds  of  fate  are  stilled  for  ever—' 
Thy  little  generous  life  is  donet 
And  alt  its  wistful  wonderings  cease! 
Thou  traveller  to  the  tideless  sea, 
Where  light  and  dark,  and  change  and  peace, 
Are  One — Come,  little  soul,  to  MYSTERY! 
SEELCHEN,  falling  on  her  knees,  bows  her  head 
to  the  ground.     The  glow  slowly  fades  till  the 
scene  is  black. 


33 


SCENE  VI 

Then  as  the  blackness  lifts,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  false 
dawn  filtering  through  the  window  of  the  mountain 
hut,  LAMOND  and  FELSMAN  are  seen  standing  be- 
side SEELCHEN  looking  down  at  her  asleep  on  the 
window  seat. 

FELSMAN  [Putting  out  his  hand  to  wake  her]  In  a 
moment  it  will  be  dawn. 

She  stirs,  and  her  lips  move,  murmuring. 
LAMOND.  Let  her  sleep.    She's  dreaming. 

FELSMAN  raises  a  lantern,  till  its  light  falls  on 

her  face.     Then  the  two  men  move  stealthily 

towards  the  door,  and,  as  she  speaks,  pass  out. 

SEELCHEN.  [Rising  to  her  knees,  and  stretching  out 

her  hands  with  ecstasy]  Great  One,  I  come!  [Waking, 

she  looks  around,  and  struggles  to  her  feet]  My  little 

dream! 

Through  the  open  door,  the  first  flush  of  dawn 
shows  in  the  sky.  There  is  a  sound  of  goat- 
bells  passing. 

The  curtain  fall*. 


JUSTICE 

A  TRAGEDY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

JAMES  How 


>  solicitors 
} 


WALTER  How,  his  son 

ROBERT  COKESON,  their  managing  clerk 

WILLIAM  FALDER,  their  junior  clerk 

SWEEDLE,  their  office-boy 

WISTER,  a  detective 

COWLEY,  a  cashier 

MR.  JUSTICE  FLOYD,  a  judge 

HAROLD  CLEAVER,  an  old  advocate 

HECTOR  FROME,  a  young  advocate 

CAPTAIN  DANSON,  V.C.,  a  prison  governor 

THE  REV.  HUGH  MILLER,  a  prison  chaplain 

EDWARD  CLEMENTS,  a  prison  doctm 

WOODER,  a  chief  warder 

MOANEY    \ 

CLIFTON    >  convicts 

O'CLEARY  ) 

RUTH  HONEYWILL,  a  woman 

A   NUMBER   OP   BARRISTERS,    SOLICITORS,   SPECTATORS, 

USHERS,   REPORTERS,   JURYMEN,   WARDERS,   AND 

PRISONERS 

TIME:  The  Present. 

ACT  I.  The  office  of  James  and  Walter  How.    Morning. 

July. 

ACT  II.  Assizes.     Afternoon.    October. 
ACT  III.  A  prison.    December. 

SCENE  1.  The  Governor's  office. 

SCENE  II.  A  corridor. 

SCENE  III.  A  cell 

ACT  IV.  The  office  of  James  and  Walter  How.    Morning 
March,  two  years  later. 


CAST  OP  THE  FIRST  PRODUCTION 

AT  THE 

DUKE  OF  YORK'S  THEATRE,  FEBRUARY  21,  1910 

James  How  MR.  SYDNEY  VALENTINE 

Walter  How  MB.  CHARLES  MAUDE 

Cokeson  MR.  EDMUND  GWENN 

Falder  MR.  DENNIS  EADIB 

The  Office-boy  MR.  GEORGE  HERSEE 

The  Detective  MR.  LESLIE  CARTER 

The  Cashier  MR.  C.  E.  VERNON 

The  Judge  MR.  DION  BOUCICAULT 

The  Old  Advocate  MR.  OSCAR  ADYE 

The  Young  Advocate  MR.  CHARLES  BRYANT 

The  Prison  Governor  MR.  GRENDON  BENTLEY 

The  Prison  Chaplain  MR.  HUBERT  HARBEN 

The  Prison  Doctor  MR.  LEWIS  CASSOIC 

Wooder  MR.  FREDERICK  LLOYD 

Moaney  MR.  ROBERT  PATEMAN 

Clipton  MR.  O.  P.  HEGGIH 

O'Cleary  MR.  WHITFORD  KANE 

Ruth  Honey wiii  Miss  EDTTH  OLIVB 


ACT  I 

The  scene  is  the  managing  clerk's  room,  at  the  offices  of 
JAMES  AND  WALTER  How,  on  a  July  morning. 
The  room  is  old-fashioned,  furnished  with  well-worn 
mahogany  and  leather,  and  lined  with  tin  boxes  and 
estate  plans.  It  has  three  doors.  Two  of  them 
are  close  together  in  the  centre  of  a  wall.  One  of 
these  two  doors  leads  to  the  outer  office,  which  is 
only  divided  from  the  managing  clerk's  room  by  a 
partition  of  wood  and  clear  glass;  and  when  the 
door  into  this  outer  office  is  opened  there  can  be 
seen  the  wide  outer  door  leading  out  on  to  the  stone 
stairway  of  the  building.  The  other  of  these  two 
centre  doors  leads  to  the  junior  clerk's  room.  The 
third  door  is  that  leading  to  the  partners'  room. 

The  managing  clerk,  COKESON,  is  sitting  at  his  table 
adding  up  figures  in  a  pass-book,  and  murmuring 
their  numbers  to  himself.  He  is  a  man  of  sixty, 
wearing  spectacles,'  rather  short,  with  a  bald  head, 
and  an  honest,  pug-dog  face.  He  is  dressed  in  a 
well-worn  black  frock-coat  and  pepper-and-salt 
trousers. 

COKESON.    And  five's  twelve,   and  three — fifteen, 
nineteen,  twenty-three,  thirty-two,  forty-one — and  carry 


2  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

four.  [He  ticks  the  page,  and  goes  on  murmuring] 
Five,  seven,  twelve,  seventeen,  twenty-four  and  nine, 
thirty-three,  thirteen  and  carry  one. 

He  again  makes  a  tick.  The  outer  office 
door  is  opened,  and  SWEEDLE,  the  office-boy, 
appears,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  He 
is  a  pale  youth  of  sixteen,  with  spiky  hair. 

COKESON.  [With  grumpy  expectation]  And  carry 
one. 

SWEEDLE.  There's  a  party  wants  to  see  Falder,  Mr. 
Cokeson. 

COKESON.  Five,  nine,  sixteen,  twenty-one,  twenty- 
nine — and  carry  two.  Sent  him  to  Morris's.  What 
name? 

SWEEDLE.  Honeywill. 

COKESON.  What's  his  business? 

SWEEDLE.  It's  a  woman. 

COKESON.  A  lady  ? 

SWEEDLE.  No,  a  person. 

COKESON.  Ask  her  in.  Take  this  pass-book  to 
Mr.  James.  [He  closes  the  pass-book. 

SWEEDLE.  [Reopening  the  door]  Will  you  come  in, 
olease  ? 

RUTH  HONEYWILL  comes  in.  She  is  a  tall 
woman,  twenty-six  years  old,  unpreten- 
tiously dressed,  with  black  hair  and  eyes, 
and  an  ivory-white,  clear-cut  face.  She 
stands  very  still,  having  a  natural  dignity  of 
pose  and  gesture. 


icr  i  JUSTICE  S 

SWEEDLE  goes  out  into  the  partners'  room  with 
the  pass-book. 

COKESON.  [Looking  round  at  RUTH]  The  young 
man's  out.  [Suspiciously]  State  your  business,  please. 

RUTH.  [Who  speaks  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  and 
with  a  slight  West-Country  accent]  It's  a  personal 
matter,  sir. 

COKESON.  We  don't  allow  private  callers  here. 
Will  you  leave  a  message  ? 

RUTH.  I'd  rather  see  him,  please. 

She  narrows  her  dark  eyes  and  gives  him  a 
honeyed  look. 

COKESON.  [Expanding]  It's  all  against  the  rules. 
Suppose  I  had  my  friends  here  to  see  me!  It'd  never 
do! 

RUTH.  No,  sir. 

COKESON.  [.4  little  taken  aback]  Exactly  I  And  here 
you  are  wanting  to  see  a  junior  clerk! 

RUTH.  Yes,  sir;  I  must  see  him. 

COKESON.  [Turning  full  round  to  her  ivith  a  sort  of 
outraged  interest]  But  this  is  a  lawyer's  office.  Go  to 
his  private  address. 

RUTH.  He's  not  there. 

COKESON.  [Uneasy]    Are  you  related  to  the  party? 

RUTH.  No,  sir. 

COKESON.  [In  real  embarrassment]  I  don't  know 
what  to  say.  It's  no  affair  of  the  office. 

RUTH.  But  what  am  I  to  do  ? 

COKESON.  Dear  me!  I  can't  tell  you  that. 


4  JUSTICE  ACT  r 

SWEEDLE  comes  back.  He  crosses  to  the  outer 
office  and  passes  through  into  it,  with  a 
quizzical  look  at  COKESON,  carefully  leaving 
the  door  an  inch  or  two  open. 

COKESON.  [Fortified  by  this  look]  This  won't  do, 
you  know,  this  won't  do  at  all.  Suppose  one  of  the 
partners  came  in! 

An  incoherent  knocking  and  chuckling  is  heard 

from  the  outer  door  of  the  outer  office. 
SWEEDLE.  [Putting  his  head  in]  There's  some  chil- 
dren outside  here. 
RUTH.  They're  mine,  please. 
SWEEDLE.  Shall  I  hold  them  in  check? 
RUTH.  They're  quite  small,  sir.    [She  takes  a  step 
towards  COKESON. 

COKESON.  You  mustn't  take  up  his  time  in  office 
hours;  we're  a  clerk  short  as  it  is. 

RUTH.  It's  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
COKESON.  [Again  outraged]  Life  and  death! 
SWEEDLE.  Here  is  Falder. 

FALDEB  ha.s  entered  through  the  outer  office. 
He  is  a  pale,  good-looking  young  man, 
with  quick,  rather  scared  eyes.  He  moves 
towards  the  door  of  the  clerks*  office,  and 
stands  there  irresolute. 

COKESON.  Well,  I'll  give  you  a  minute.  It's  not 
regular. 

Taking  up  a  bundle  of  papers,  he  goes  out  into 
the  partners'  room. 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  5 

RUTH.  [In  a  low,  hurried  voice]  He's  on  the  drink 
again,  Will.  He  tried  to  cut  my  throat  last  njght. 
I  came  out  with  the  children  before  he  was  awake. 
I  went  round  to  you 

FALDER.  IVe  changed  my  digs. 

RUTH.  Is  it  all  ready  for  to-night  ? 

FALDER.  IVe  got  the  tickets.  Meet  me  11.45  at 
the  booking  office.  For  God's  sake  don't  forget  we're 
man  and  wife!  [Looking  at  her  with  tragic  intensity] 
Ruth! 

RUTH.  You're  not  afraid  of  going,  are  you  ? 

FALDER.  Have  you  got  your  things,  and  the  chil- 
dren's ? 

RUTH.  Had  to  leave  them,  for  fear  of  waking 
Honeywill,  all  but  one  bag.  I  can't  go  near  home 
again. 

FALDER.  [Wincing]  All  that  money  gone  for  nothing. 
How  much  must  you  have  ? 

RUTH.  Six  pounds — I  could  do  with  that,  I  think. 

FALDER.  Don't  give  away  where  we're  going.  [4* 
if  to  himself}  When  I  get  out  there  I  mean  to  forget 
it  all. 

RUTH.  If  you're  sorry,  say  so.  I'd  sooner  he  killed 
me  than  take  you  against  your  will. 

FALDER.  [With  a  queer  smile]  We've  got  to  go. 
I  don't  care;  I'll  have  you. 

RUTH.  You've  just  to  say;  it's  not  too  late. 

FALDER.  It  is  too  late.  Here's  seven  pounds. 
Booking  office — 11.45  to-night.  If  you  weren't  what 
you  are  to  me,  Ruth ! 


6  JUSTICE  ACT i 

RUTH.  Kiss  me! 

They  cling  together  passionately,  then  fly  apart 
just  as  COKESON  re-enters  the  room.  RUTH 
turns  and  goes  out  through  the  outer  office. 
COKESON  advances  deliberately  to  his  chair 
and  seats  himself. 

COKESON.  This  isn't  right,  Falder. 
FALDER.  It  shan't  occur  again,  sir. 
COKESON.  It's  an  improper  use  of  these  premises. 
FALDER.  Yes,  sir. 

COKESON.  You  quite  understand — the  party  was 
in  some  distress;  and,  having  children  with  her,  I 
allowed  my  feelings [He  opens  a  drawer  and  pro- 
duces from  it  a  tract]  Just  take  this!  "Purity  in  the 
Home."  It's  a  well-written  thing. 

FALDER.  [Taking  it,  with  a  peculiar  expression] 
Thank  you,  sir. 

COKESON.  And  look  here,  Falder,  before  Mr.  Walter 
comes,  have  you  finished  up  that  cataloguing  Davis 
had  in  hand  before  he  left  ? 

FALDER.  I  shall  have  done  with  it  to-morrow,  sir — 
for  good. 

COKESON.  It's  over  a  week  since  Davis  went.  Now 
it  won't  do,  Falder.  You're  neglecting  your  work 
for  private  life.  I  shan't  mention  about  the  party 

having  called,  but 

FALDER.  [Passing  into  his  room]  Thank  you,  sir. 
COKESON  stares  at  the  door  through  which 
FALDER  has  gone  out;  then  shakes  his  head, 
and  is  just  settling   df<wn  to  write,  when 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  7 

WALTER  How  comes  in  through  the  outer 
office.  He  is  a  rather  refined-looking  man 
of  thirty-five,  with  a  pleasant,  almost  apolo- 
getic voice. 

WALTER.  Good-morning,  Cokeson. 

COKESON.  Morning,  Mr.  Walter. 

WALTER.  My  father  here  ? 

COKESON.  [Always  with  a  certain  patronage  as  to  a 
young  man  who  might  be  doing  better]  Mr.  James  has 
been  here  since  eleven  o'clock. 

WALTER.  I've  been  in  to  see  the  pictures,  at  the 
Guildhall. 

COKESON.  [Looking  at  him  as  though  this  wtrt 
exactly  what  was  to  be  expected]  Have  you  now — ye-es. 
This  lease  of  Boulter's — am  I  to  send  it  to  counsel  ? 

WALTER.  What  does  my  father  say  ? 

COKESON.  'Aven't  bothered  him. 

WALTER.  Well,  we  can't  be  too  careful. 

COKESON.  It's  such  a  little  thing — hardly  worth 
the  fees.  I  thought  you'd  do  it  yourself. 

WALTER.  Send  it,  please.  I  don't  want  the  re- 
sponsibility. 

COKESON.  [With  an  indescribable  air  of  compassion] 
Just  as  you  like.  This  "right-of-way"  case — we'v« 
got  'em  on  the  deeds. 

WALTER.  I  know;  but  the  intention  was  obviously 
to  exclude  that  bit  of  common  ground. 

COKESON.  We  needn't  worry  about  that.  We're 
the  right  side  of  the  law. 

WALTER.  I  don't  like  it. 


8  JUSTICE  ACTI 

CORESON.  [With  an  indulgent  smile]  We  shan't  want 
to  set  ourselves  up  against  the  law.  Your  father 
wouldn't  waste  his  time  doing  that. 

As  he  speaks  JAMES  How  comes  in  from  the 
partners'  room.  He  is  a  shortish  man,  with 
white  side-whiskers,  plentiful  grey  hair, 
shrewd  eyes,  and  gold  pince-nez. 

JAMES.  Morning,  Walter. 

WALTER.  How  are  you,  father? 

COKESON.  [Looking  down  his  nose  at  the  paper*  in 
his  hand  as  though  deprecating  their  size]  I'll  just  take 
Boulter's  lease  in  to  young  Falder  to  draft  the  in- 
structions. [He  goes  out  into  FALDER'S  room. 

WALTER.  About  that  right-of-way  case? 

JAMES.  Oh,  well,  we  must  go  forward  there.  I 
thought  you  told  me  yesterday  the  firm's  balance 
was  over  four  hundred. 

WALTER.  So  it  is. 

JAMES.  [Holding  out  the  pass-book  to  his  son]  Three 
— five — one,  no  recent  cheques.  Just  get  me  out  the 
cheque-book. 

WALTER  goes  to  a  cupboard,  unlocks  a  drawer, 
and  produces  a  cheque-book. 

JAMES.  Tick  the  pounds  in  the  counterfoils.  Five, 
fifty-four,  seven,  five,  twenty-eight,  twenty,  ninety, 
eleven,  fifty-two,  seventy-one.  Tally  ? 

WALTER.  [Nodding]  Can't  understand.  Made  sure 
it  was  over  four  hundred. 

JAMES.  Give  me   the  cheque-book.  [He   takes   the 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  9 

cheaue-book  and  cons  the  counterfoils]  What's  this 
ninety  ? 

WALTER.  Who  drew  it  ? 

JAMES.  You. 

WALTER.  [Taking  the  cheque-book]  July  7th?  That's 
the  day  I  went  down  to  look  over  the  Trenton  Estate 
— last  Friday  week;  I  came  back  on  the  Tuesday, 
you  remember.  But  look  here,  father,  it  was  nine  I 
drew  a.  cheque  for.  Five  guineas  to  Smithers  and  my 
expenses.  It  just  covered  all  but  half  a  crown. 

JAMES.  [Gravely]  Let's  look  at  that  ninety  cheque. 
[He  sorts  the  cheque  out  \rorn  the  bundle  in  the  pocket  of 
the  pass-book]  Seems  all  right.  There's  no  nine  here. 
This  is  bad.  Who  cashed  that  nine-pound  cheque? 

WALTER.  [Puzzled  and  pained]  Let's  see!  I  was 
finishing  Mrs.  Reddy's  will — only  just  had  time;  yes 
— I  gave  it  to  Cokeson. 

JAMES.  Look  at  that  t  y  :  that  yours  ? 

WALTER.  [After  consideration]  My  y's  curl  back  a 
little;  this  doesn't. 

JAMES.  [As  COKESON  re-enters  from  FALDER'S  room] 
We  must  ask  him.  Just  come  here  and  carry  your 
mind  back  a  bit,  Cokeson.  D'you  remember  cashing  a 
cheque  for  Mr.  Walter  last  Friday  week — the  day  he 
went  to  Trenton  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es.     Nine  pounds. 

JAMES.  Look  at  this.          [Handing  him  the  cheque, 

COKESON.  No!  Nine  pounds.  My  lunch  was  just 
coming  in;  and  of  course  I  like  it  hot:  I  gave  the  cheque 
to  Davis  to  run  round  to  the  bank.  He  brought  it 


10  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

back,  all  gold — you  remember,  Mr.  Walter,  you 
wanted  some  silver  to  pay  your  cab.  [With  a  certain 
contemptuous  compassion}  Here,  let  me  see.  You've 
got  the  wrong  cheque. 

He   takes    cheque-book    and   pass-book   from 
WALTER. 

WALTER.  Afraid  not. 

COKESON.  [Having  seen  for  himself]  It's  funny. 

JAMES.  You  gave  it  to  Davis,  and  Davis  sailed  for 
Australia  on  Monday.  Looks  black,  Cokeson. 

COKESON.  [Puzzled  and  upset]  Why  this'd  be  a 
felony!  No,  no!  there's  some  mistake. 

JAMES.  I  hope  so. 

COKESON.  There's  never  been  anything  of  that  sort 
in  the  office  the  twenty-nine  years  I've  been  here. 

JAMES.  [Looking  at  cheque  and  counterfoil]  This  is  a 
very  clever  bit  of  work;  a  warning  to  you  not  to  leave 
space  after  your  figures,  Walter. 

WALTER.  [Fe:mQ  Yes,  I  know — I  was  in  such  a 
tearing  hurry  that  afternoon. 

COKESON.  [Suddenly]  This  has  upset  me. 

JAMES.  The  counterfoil  altered  too — very  deliberate 
piece  of  swindling.  What  was  Da  vis's  ship? 

WALTER.  City  of  Rangoon. 

JAMES.  We  ought  to  wire  and  have  him  arrested 
at  Naples;  he  can't  be  there  yet. 

COKESON.  His  poor  young  wife.  I  liked  the  young 
man.  Dear,  oh  dear!  In  this  office! 

WALTER.  Shall  I  go  to  the  bank  and  ask  the 
cashier  ? 


*cr  i  JUSTICE  11 

JAMES.  [Grimly]  Bring  him  round  here.  And  ring 
up  Scotland  Yard. 

WALTER.  Really? 

He  goes  out  through  the  outer  office.  JAMES 
paces  the  room.  He  stops  and  looks  at 
COKESON,  who  is  disconsolately  rubbing  the 
knees  of  his  trousers. 

JAMES.  Well,  Cokeson!  There's  something  in  char- 
acter, isn't  there? 

COKESON.  [Looking  at  him  over  his  spectacles]  I  don't 
quite  take  you,  sir. 

JAMES.  Your  story   would   sound   d d   thin   to 

any  one  who  didn't  know  you. 

COKESON.  Ye-es!  [He  laughs.  Then  with  sudden 
gravity]  I'm  sorry  for  that  young  man.  I  feel  it  as 
if  it  was  my.  own  son,  Mr.  James. 

JAMES.  A  nasty  business! 

COKESON.  It  unsettles  you.  All  goes  on  regular, 
and  then  a  thing  like  this  happens.  Shan't  relish 
my  lunch  to-day. 

JAMES.  As  bad  as  that,  Cokeson  ? 

COKESON.  It  makes  you  think.  [Confidentially]  He 
must  have  had  temptation. 

JAMES.  Not  so  fast.  We  haven't  convicted  him 
yet. 

COKESON.  I'd  sooner  have  lost  a  month's  salary 
than  had  this  happen.  [He  broods. 

JAMES.  I  hope  that  fellow  will  hurry  up. 

COKESON.  [Keeping  things  pleasant  for  the  cashier] 
It  isn't  fifty  yards,  Mr.  Jam*s  He  won't  be  a  minute. 


12  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

JAMES.  The  idea  of  dishonesty  about  this  office — 
it  hits  me  hard,  Cokeson. 

He  goes  towards  the  door  of  the  partners'  room. 

SWEEDLE.  [Entering  quietly,  to  COKESON  in  a  low 
voice]  She's  popped  up  again,  sir — something  she 
forgot  to  say  to  Falder. 

COKESON.  [Roused  from  his  abstraction]  Eh?  Im- 
possible. Send  her  away! 

JAMES.  What's  that  ? 

COKESON.  Nothing,  Mr.  James.  A  private  matter. 
Here,  I'll  come  myself.  [He  goes  into  the  outer  office 
as  JAMES  passes  into  the  partners'  room]  Now,  you 
really  mustn't — we  can't  have  anybody  just  now. 

RUTH.  Not  for  a  minute,  sir? 

COKESON.  Reely!  Reely!  I  can't  have  it.  If 
you  want  him,  wait  about;  he'll  be  going  out  for  his 
lunch  directly. 

RUTH.  Yes,  sir. 

WALTER,   entering   with   the   cashier,  passes 
RUTH  a*  she  leaves  the  outer  office. 

COKESON.  [To  the  cashier,  who  resembles  a  sedentary 
dragoon]  Good-morning.  [To  WALTER]  Your  father's 
in  there. 

WALTER  crosses  and  goes  into  the  partners' 
room. 

COKESON.  It's  a  nahsty,  unpleasant  little  matter, 
Mr.  Cowley.  I'm  quite  ashamed  to  have  to  trouble 
yoi». 

COWLEY.  I  remember  the  cheque  quite  well.  [As 
if  it  were  a  liver]  Seemed  in  perfect  order. 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  13 

COKESON.  Sit  down,  won't  you  ?  I'm  not  a  sensitive 
man,  but  a  thing  like  this  about  the  place — it's  not 
nice.  I  like  people  to  be  open  and  jolly  together. 

COWLEY.  Quite  so. 

COKESON.  [Buttonholing  him,  and  glancing  towards 
the  partners'  room]  Of  course  he's  a  young  man.  I've 
told  him  about  it  before  now — leaving  space  after  his 
figures,  but  he  will  do  it. 

COWLEY.  I  should  remember  the  person's  face — 
quite  a  youth. 

COKESON.  I  don't  think  we  shall  be  able  to  show 
him  to  you,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 

JAMES  and  WALTER  have  come  back  from  the 
partners'  room. 

JAMES.  Good-morning,  Mr.  Cowley.  You've  seen 
my  son  and  myself,  you've  seen  Mr.  Cokeson,  and 
you've  seen  Sweedle,  my  office-boy.  It  was  none  of 
us,  I  take  it. 

The  cashier  shakes  his  head  with  a  smile. 

JAMES.  Be  so  good  as  to  sit  there.  Cokeson, 
engage  Mr.  Cowley  in  conversation,  will  you  ? 

He  goes  towards  FALDER'S  room. 

COKESON.  Just  a  word,  Mr.  James. 

JAMES.  Well? 

COKESON.  You  don't  want  to  upset  the  young  man 
in  there,  do  you  ?  He's  a  nervous  young  feller. 

JAMES.  This  must  be  thoroughly  cleared  up,  Cokeson, 
for  the  sake  of  Falder's  name,  to  say  nothing  of  yours. 

COKESON.    [With  some  dignity]  That'll  look  after 


14  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

itself,    sir.     He's   been   upset   once   this   morning;    I 
don't  want  him  startled  again. 

JAMES.  It's  a  matter  of  form;  but  I  can't  stand  upon 
niceness  over  a  thing  like  this — too  serious.  Just 
talk  to  Mr.  Cowley. 

He  opens  the  door  of  FALDER'S  room. 
JAMES.  Bring  in  the  papers  in  Boulter's  lease,  will 
you,  Falder? 

COKESON.  [Bursting  into  voice]  Do  you  keep  dogs  ? 
The  cashier,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  door,  does 

not  answer. 

COKESON.  You  haven't  such  a  thing  as  a  bulldog 
pup  you  could  spare  me,  I  suppose  ? 

At  the  look  on  the  cashier's  face  his  jaw  drops, 
and  he  turns  to  see  FALDER  standing  in  the 
doorway,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  COWLEY, 
like  the  eyes  of  a  rabbit  fastened  on  a 
snake. 

FALDER.  [Advancing  with  the  papers]  Here  they 
are,  sir! 

JAMES.  [Taking  them]  Thank  you. 
FALDER.  Do  you  want  me,  sir? 
JAMES.  No,  thanks! 

FALDER  turns  and  goes  back  into  his  own 
room.  As  he  shuts  the  door  JAMES  gives  the 
cashier  an  interrogative  look,  and  the  cashier 
nods. 

JAMES.  Sure  ?    This  isn't  as  we  suspected. 
COWLEY.  Quite.     He  knew  me.     I  suppose  he  can't 
slip  out  of  that  room  ? 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  15 

COKESON.  [Gloomily]  There's  only  the  window — a 
whole  floor  and  a  basement. 

The  door  of  FALDER'S  room  is  quietly  opened, 
and  FALDER,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  moves 
towards  the  door  of  the  outer  office. 

JAMES.  [Quietly]  Where  are  you  going,  Falder  ? 

FALDER.  To  have  my  lunch,  sir. 

JAMES.  Wait  a  few  minutes,  would  you  ?  I  want 
to  speak  to  you  about  this  lease. 

FALDER.  Yes,  sir.  [He  goes  back  into  his  room. 

COWLEY.  If  I'm  wanted,  I  can  swear  that's  the 
young  man  who  cashed  the  cheque.  It  was  the  last 
cheque  I  handled  that  morning  before  my  lunch. 
These  are  the  numbers  of  the  notes  he  had.  [He  puts 
a  slip  of  paper  on  the  table;  then,  brushing  his  hat  round] 
Good-morning ! 

JAMES.  Good-morning,  Mr.  Cow  ley! 

COWLEY.  [To  COKESON]  Good-morning. 

COKESON.  [With  stupefaction]  Good-morning. 

The  cashier  goes  out  through  the  outer  office. 
COKESON  sits  down  in  his  chair,  as  though 
it  were  the  only  place  left  in  the  morass  of  his 
feelings. 

WALTER.  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 
JAMES.  Have   him  in.     Give  me  the   cheque  and 
the  counterfoil. 

COKESON.  I   don't   understand.     I   thought  young 

Davis 

JAMES.  We  shall  see. 


16  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

WALTER.  One  moment,  father:  have  you  thought 
it  out  ? 

JAMES.  Call  him  in! 

COKESON.  [Rising  with  difficulty  and  opening  FAL- 
DER'S  door;  hoarsely]  Step  in  here  a  minute. 

FALDER  comes  in. 

FALDER.  [Impassively]  Yes,  sir? 

JAMES.  [Turning  to  him  suddenly  with  the  cheque 
held  out]  You  know  this  cheque,  Falder  ? 

FALDER.  No,  sir. 

JAMES.  Look  at  it.    You  cashed  it  last  Friday  week. 

FALDER.  Oh!  yes,  sir;  that  one — Davis  gave  it  me. 

JAMES.  I  know.    And  you  gave  Davis  the  cash  ? 

FALDER.  Yes,  sir. 

JAMES.  When  Davis  gave  you  the  cheque  was  it 
exactly  like  this  ? 

FALDER.  Yes,  I  think  so,  sir. 

JAMES.  You  know  that  Mr.  Walter  drew  that  cheque 
for  nine  pounds  ? 

FALDER.  No,  sir — ninety. 

JAMES.  Nine,  Falder. 

FALDER.  [Faintly]  I  don't  understand,  sir. 

JAMES.  The  suggestion,  of  course,  is  that  the  cheque 
was  altered;  whether  by  you  or  Davis  is  the  question. 

FALDER.  I — I 

COKESON.  Take  your  time,  take  your  time. 

FALDER.  [Regaining  his  impassivity]  Not  by  me,  sir. 

JAMES.  The  cheque  was  handed  to  Cokeson  by  Mr. 
Walter  at  one  o'clock;  we  know  that  because  Mr. 
Cokeson's  lunch  had  just  arrived. 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  17 

COKESON.  I  couldn't  leave  it. 

JAMES.  Exactly;  he  therefore  gave  the  cheque  to 
Davis.  It  was  cashed  by  you  at  1.15.  We  know 
that  because  the  cashier  recollects  it  for  the  last  cheque 
he  handled  before  his  lunch. 

FALDER.  Yes,  sir,  Davis  gave  it  to  me  because 
some  friends  were  giving  him  a  farewell  luncheon. 

JAMES.  [Puzzled]  You  accuse  Davis,  then? 

FALDER.  I  don't  know,  sir — it's  very  funny. 

WALTER,  who  has  come  close  to  his  father,  says 
something  to  him  in  a  low  voice. 

JAMES.  Davis  was  not  here  again  after  that  Saturday, 
was  he  ? 

COKESON.  [Anxious  to  be  of  assistance  to  the  young 
man,  and  seeing  faint  signs  of  their  all  being  jolly  once 
more]  No,  he  sailed  on  the  Monday. 

JAMES.  Was  he,  Falder? 

FALDER.  [Very  faintly]  No,  sir. 

JAMES.  Very  well,  then,  how  do  you  account  for 
the  fact  that  this  nought  was  added  to  the  nine  in 
the  counterfoil  on  or  after  Tuesday? 

COKESON.  [Surprised]  How's  that  ? 

FALDER  gives  a  sort  of  lurch;  he  tries  to  pull 
himself  together,  but  he  has  gone  all  to 
pieces. 

JAMES.  [Very  grimly]  Out,  I'm  afraid,  Cokeson, 
The  cheque-book  remained  in  Mr.  Walter's  pocket 
till  he  came  back  from  Trenton  on  Tuesday  morning. 
In  the  face  of  this,  Falder,  do  you  still  deny  that  you 
altered  both  cheque  and  counterfoil  ? 


18  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

FALDER.  No,  sir — no,  Mr.  How.  I  did  it,  sir;  I 
did  it. 

COKESON.  [Succumbing  to  his  feelings]  Dear,  dear! 
what  a  thing  to  do! 

FALDER.  I  wanted  the  money  so  badly,  sir.  I 
didn't  know  what  I  was  doing. 

COKESON.  However  such  a  thing  could  have  come 
into  your  head! 

FALDER.  [Grasping  at  the  words]  I  can't  think, 
sir,  really!  It  was  just  a  minute  of  madness. 

JAMES.  A  long  minute,  Falder.  [Tapping  the 
counterfoil]  Four  days  at  least. 

FALDER.  Sir,  I  swear  I  didn't  know  what  I'd  done 
till  afterwards,  and  then  I  hadn't  the  pluck.  Oh! 
sir,  look  over  it!  I'll  pay  the  money  back — I  will,  I 
promise. 

JAMES.  Go  into  your  room. 

FALDER,  with  a  swift  imploring  look,  goes  back 
into  his  room.     There  is  silence. 

JAMES.  About  as  bad  a  case  as  there  could  be. 

COKESON.  To  break  the  law  like  that — in  here! 

WALTER.  What's  to  be  done  ? 

JAMES.  Nothing  for  it.     Prosecute. 

WALTER.  It's  his  first  offence. 

JAMES.  [Shaking  his  head]  I've  grave  doubts  of 
that.  Too  neat  a  piece  of  swindling  altogether. 

COKESON.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  was 
tempted. 

JAMES.  Life's  one  long  temptation,  Cokeson. 

COKESON.  Ye-es,   but    I'm   speaking   of   the   flesh 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  19 

and  the  devil,  Mr.  James.  There  was  a  woman  come 
to  see  him  this  morning. 

WALTER.  The  woman  we  passed  as  we  came  in 
just  now.  Is  it  his  wife  ? 

COKESON.  No,  no  relation.  [Restraining  ivhat  in 
jollier  circumstances  would  have  been  a  wink]  A  married 
person,  though. 

WALTER.  How  do  you  know  ? 

COKESON.  Brought  her  children.  [Scandalised] 
There  they  were  outside  the  office. 

JAMES.  A  real  bad  egg. 

WALTER.  I  should  like  to  give  him  a  chance. 

JAMES.  I  can't  forgive  him  for  the  sneaky  way  he 
went  to  work — counting  on  our  suspecting  young 
Davis  if  the  matter  came  to  light.  It  was  the  merest 
accident  the  cheque-book  stayed  in  your  pocket. 

WALTER.  It  must  have  been  the  temptation  of  a 
moment.  He  hadn't  time. 

JAMES.  A  man  doesn't  succumb  like  that  in  a  moment, 
if  he's  a  clean  mind  and  habits.  He's  rotten;  got  the 
eyes  of  a  man  who  can't  keep  his  hands  off  when  there's 
money  about. 

WALTER.  [Dryly]  We  hadn't  noticed  that  before. 

JAMES.  [Brushing  the  remark  aside]  I've  seen  lots 
of  those  fellows  in  my  time.  No  doing  anything  with 
them  except  to  keep  'em  out  of  harm's  way.  They've 
got  a  blind  spot. 

WALTER.  It's  penal  servitude. 

COKESON.  They're  nahsty  places — prisons. 

JAMES.  [Hesitating]  I   don't   see   how   it's   possible 


20  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

to  spare  him.     Out  of  the  question  to  keep  him  in 
this  office — honesty's  the  sine  qua  non. 

COKESON.  [Hypnotised]  Of  course  it  is. 

JAMES.  Equally  out  of  the  question  to  send  him 
out  amongst  people  who've  no  knowledge  of  his  char- 
acter. One  must  think  of  society. 

WALTER.  But  to  brand  him  like  this  ? 

JAMES.  If  it  had  been  a  straightforward  case  I'd 
give  him  another  chance.  It's  far  from  that.  He 
has  dissolute  habits. 

COKESON.  I  didn't  say  that — extenuating  circum- 
stances. 

JAMES.  Same  thing.  He's  gone  to  work  in  the 
most  cold-blooded  way  to  defraud  his  employers, 
and  cast  the  blame  on  an  innocent  man.  If  that's 
not  a  ease  for  the  law  to  take  its  course,  I  don't  know 
what  is. 

WALTER.  For  the  sake  of  his  future,  though. 

JAMES.  [Sarcastically]  According  to  you,  no  one 
would  ever  prosecute. 

WALTER.  [Nettled]  I  hate  the  idea  of  it. 

COKESON.  That's  rather  ex  parte,  Mr.  Walter!  We 
must  have  protection. 

JAMES.  This  is  degenerating  into  talk. 

He  moves  towards  the  partners'  room. 

WALTER.  Put  yourself  in  his  place,  father. 

JAMES.  You  ask  too  much  of  me. 

WALTER.  We  can't  possibly  tell  the  pressure  there 
was  on  him. 

JAMES.  You  may  depend  on  it.  my  boy,  if  a  man  ia 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  21 

going  to  do  this  sort  of  thing  he'll  do  it,  pressure  or 
no  pressure;  if  he  isn't  nothing'll  make  him. 

WALTER.  He'll  never  do  it  again. 

COKESON.  [Fatuously]  S'pose  I  were  to  have  a  talk 
with  him.  We  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  the  young 
man. 

JAMES.  That'll  do,  Cokeson.  I've  made  up  my 
mind.  [He  passes  into  the  partners'  room. 

COKESON.  [After  a  doubtful  moment]  We  must  ex- 
cuse your  father.  I  don't  want  to  go  against  your 
father;  if  he  thinks  it  right. 

WALTER.  Confound  it,  Cokeson!  why  don't  you 
back  me  up  ?  You  know  you  feel 

COKESON.  [On  his  dignity]  I  really  can't  say  what 
I  feel. 

WALTER.  We  shall  regret  it. 

COKESON.  He  must  have  known  what  he  was 
doing. 

WALTER.  [Bitterly]  "The  quality  of  mercy  is  not 
strained." 

COKESON.  [Looking  at  him  askance]  Come,  come,  Mr. 
Walter.  We  must  try  and  see  it  sensible. 

SWEEDLE.  [Entering  with  a  tray]  Your  lunch,  sir. 

COKESON.  Put  it  down! 

While  SWEEDLE  is  putting  it  down  on  COKE- 
SON'S  table,  the  detective,  WISTER,  enters  the 
outer  office,  and,  finding  no  one  there,  comes 
to  the  inner  doorway.  He  is  a  square, 
medium-sized  man,  clean-shaved,  in  a  ser- 
viceable blue  serge  suit  and  strong  boots. 


22  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

WISTER.  [To  WALTER]  From  Scotland  Yard,  sir. 
Detective-Sergeant  Wister. 

WALTER.  [Askance]  Very  well!  I'll  speak  to  my 
father. 

He  goes  into  the  partners'  room.     JAMES  enters. 

JAMES.  Morning!  [In  answer  to  an  appealing  gesture 
from  COKESON]  I'm  sorry;  I'd  stop  short  of  this  if  I 
felt  I  could.  Open  that  door.  [SWEEDLE,  wondering 
and  scared,  opens  it]  Come  here,  Mr.  Falder. 

As  FALDER  comes  shrinkingly  out,  the  detective, 
in  obedience  to  a  sign  from,  JAMES,  slips  hit 
hand  out  and  grasps  his  arm. 

FALDER.  [Recoiling]  Oh!  no, — oh!  no: 
WISTER.  Come,  come,  there's  a  good  lad. 
JAMES.  I  charge  him  with  felony. 
FALDER.  Oh,  sir!    There's  some  one — I  did  it  for 
her.     Let  me  be  till  to-morrow. 

JAMES  motions  with  his  hand.  At  that  sign  of 
hardness,  FALDER  becomes  rigid.  Then, 
turning,  he  goes  out  quietly  in  the  detective's 
grip.  JAMES  follows,  stiff  and  erect.  SWEE- 
DLE, rushing  to  the  door  with  open  mouth, 
pursues  them  through  the  outer  office  into  the 
corridor.  When  they  have  all  disappeared 
COKESON  spins  completely  round  and  makes 
a  rush  for  the  outer  office. 

COKESON.  [Hoarsely]  Here!  Here!  What  are  we 
doing  ? 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  23 

There  is  silence.  He  takes  out  his  handkerchief 
and  mops  the  sweat  from  his  face.  Going 
back  blindly  to  his  table,  sits  down,  and 
flares  blankly  at  his  lunch. 

The  curtain  JaUt. 


ACT  II 

A.  Court  of  Justice,  on  a  foggy  October  afternoon — 
crowded  with  barristers,  solicitors,  reporters,  ushers, 
and  jurymen.  Sitting  in  the  large,  solid  dock  is 
FALDER,  with  a  warder  on  either  side  of  him,  placed 
there  for  his  safe  custody,  but  seemingly  indifferent 
to  and  unconscious  of  his  presence.  FALDER  is 
sitting  exactly  opposite  to  the  JUDGE,  who,  raised 
above  the  clamour  of  the  court,  also  seems  unconscious 
of  and  indifferent  to  everything.  HAROLD  CLEAVER, 
the  counsel  for  the  Crown,  is  a  dried,  yellowish 
man,  of  more  than  middle  age,  in  a  wig  worn  almost 
to  the  colour  of  his  face.  HECTOR  FROME,  the 
counsel  for  the  defence,  is  a  young,  tall  man,  clean- 
shaved,  in  a  very  white  wig.  Among  the  spectators, 
having  already  given  their  evidence,  are  JAMES  and 
WALTER  How,  and  COWLEY,  the  cashier.  WISTER, 
the  detective,  is  just  leaving  the  witness-box. 

CLEAVER.  That  is  the  case  for  the  Crown,  me  lud! 

Gathering  his  robes  together,  he  fits  down. 

FROME.  [Rising  and  bowing  to  the  JUDGE]  If  it  please 

your  lordship  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury.     I  am  not 

going  to  dispute  the  fact  that  the  prisoner  altered 

25 


26  JUSTICE  ACT  n 

this  cheque,  but  I  am  going  to  put  before  you  evidence 
as  to  the  condition  of  his  mind,  and  to  submit  that 
you  would  not  be  justified  in  finding  that  he  was 
responsible  for  his  actions  at  the  time.  I  am  going 
to  show  you,  in  fact,  that  he  did  this  in  a  moment 
of  aberration,  amounting  to  temporary  insanity,  caused 
by  the  violent  distress  under  which  he  was  labouring. 
Gentlemen,  the  prisoner  is  only  twenty-three  years  old 
I  shall  call  before  you  a  woman  from  whom  you  will 
learn  the  events  that  led  up  to  this  act.  You  will  hear 
from  her  own  lips  the  tragic  circumstances  of  her  life, 
the  still  more  tragic  infatuation  with  which  she  has 
inspired  the  prisoner.  This  woman,  gentlemen,  has 
been  leading  a  miserable  existence  with  a  husband  who 
habitually  ill-uses  her,  from  whom  she  actually  goes  in 
terror  of  her  life.  I  am  not,  of  course,  saying  that  it's 
either  right  or  desirable  for  a  young  man  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  married  woman,  or  that  it's  his  business  to  rescue 
her  from  an  ogre-like  husband.  I'm  not  saying  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  But  we  all  know  the  power  of  the 
passion  of  love;  and  I  would  ask  you  to  remember, 
gentlemen,  in  listening  to  her  evidence,  that,  married 
to  a  drunken  and  violent  husband,  she  has  no  power 
to  get  rid  of  him;  for,  as  you  know,  another  offence 
besides  violence  is  necessary  to  enable  a  woman  to 
obtain  a  divorce;  and  of  this  offence  it  does  not  appear 
that  her  husband  is  guilty. 

JUDGE.  Is  this  relevant,  Mr.  Frome  ? 

FROME.  My  lord,  I  submit,  extremely — I  shall  b« 
able  to  show  your  lordship  that  directly. 


ACT  ii  JUSTICE  27 

JUDGE.  Very  well. 

FROME.  In  these  circumstances,  what  alternatives 
were  left  to  her?  She  could  either  go  on  living  with 
this  drunkard,  in  terror  of  her  life;  or  she  could  apply 
to  the  Court  for  a  separation  order.  Well,  gentlemen, 
my  experience  of  such  cases  assures  me  that  this  would 
have  given  her  very  insufficient  protection  from  the 
violence  of  such  a  man;  and  even  11  effectual  would  very 
likely  have  reduced  her  either  to  the  workhouse  or 
the  streets — for  it's  not  easy,  as  she  is  now  finding, 
for  an  unskilled  woman  without  means  of  livelihood 
to  support  herself  and  her  children  without  resorting 
either  to  the  Poor  Law  or — to  speak  quite  plainly — to 
the  sale  of  her  body. 

JUDGE.  You  are  ranging  rather  far,  Mr.  Frome. 

FROME.  I  shall  fire  point-blank  in  a  minute,  my 
fcrd. 

JUDGE.  Let  us  hope  so. 

FROME.  Now,  gentlemen,  mark — and  this  is  what 
I  have  been  leading  up  to — this  woman  will  tell  you, 
and  the  prisoner  will  confirm  her,  that,  confronted 
with  such  alternatives,  she  set  her  whole  hopes  on 
himself,  knowing  the  feeling  with  which  she  had 
inspired  him.  She  saw  a  way  out  of  her  misery  by 
going  with  him  to  a  new  country,  where  they  would 
both  be  unknown,  and  might  pass  as  husband  and 
wife.  This  was  a  desperate  and,  as  my  friend  Mr. 
Cleaver  will  no  doubt  call  it,  an  immoral  resolution; 
but,  as  a  fact,  the  minds  of  both  of  them  were  con- 
stantly turned  towards  it.  One  wrong  is  no  excu«« 


28  JUSTICE  ACT  n 

for  another,  and  those  who  are  never  likely  to  be 
faced  by  such  a  situation  possibly  have  the  right  to 
hold  up  their  hands — as  to  that  I  prefer  to  say  nothing. 
But  whatever  view  you  take,  gentlemen,  of  this  part 
of  the  prisoner's  story — whatever  opinion  you  form  of 
the  right  of  these  two  young  people  under  such  cir- 
cumstances to  take  the  law  into  their  own  hands — 
the  fact  remains  that  this  young  woman  in  her  distress, 
and  this  young  man,  little  more  than  a  boy,  who  was  so 
devotedly  attached  to  her,  did  conceive  this — if  you  like 
— reprehensible  design  of  going  away  together.  Now, 
for  that,  of  course,  they  required  money,  and — they 
had  none.  As  to  the  actual  events  of  the  morning  of 
July  7th,  on  which  this  cheque  was  altered,  the  events 
on  which  I  rely  to  prove  the  defendant's  irresponsi- 
bility— I  shall  allow  those  events  to  speak  for  themselves, 
through  the  lips  of  my  witnesses.  Robert  Cokeson. 
[He  turns,  looks  round,  takes  up  a  sheet  of  paper,  and 
waits.] 

COKESON  is  summoned  into  court,  and  goes  into 
the  witness-box,  holding  his  hat  before  him. 
The  oath  is  administered  to  him. 

FROME.  What  is  your  name? 

COKESON.  Robert  Cokeson. 

FROME.  Are  you  managing  clerk  to  the  firm  of 
solicitors  who  employ  the  prisoner? 

COKESON.  Ye-es. 

FROME.  How  long  had  the  prisoner  been  in  their 
employ  ? 


ACT  n  JUSTICE  29 

COKESON.  Two  years.  No,  I'm  wrong  there — all 
but  seventeen  days. 

FROME.  Had  you  him  under  your  eye  all  that 
time? 

COKESON.  Except  Sundays  and  holidays. 

FROME.  Quite  so.  Let  us  hear,  please,  what  you 
have  to  say  about  his  general  character  during  those 
two  years. 

COKESON.  [Confidentially  to  the  jury,  and  as  if  a 
little  surprised  at  being  asked]  He  was  a  nice,  pleasant- 
spoken  young  man.  I'd  no  fault  to  find  with  him — 
quite  the  contrary.  It  was  a  great  surprise  to  me 
when  he  did  a  thing  like  that. 

FROME.  Did  he  ever  give  you  reason  to  suspect  his 
honesty  ? 

COKESON.  No!  To  have  dishonesty  in  our  office, 
that'd  never  do. 

FROME.  I'm  sure  the  jury  fully  appreciate  that, 
Mr.  Cokeson. 

COKESON.  Every  man  of  business  knows  that 
honesty's  the  sign  qua  non. 

FROME.  Do  you  give  him  a  good  character  all 
round,  or  do  you  not  ? 

COKESON.  [Turning  to  the  JUDGE]  Certainly.  We 
were  all  very  jolly  and  pleasant  together,  until  this 
happened.  Quite  upset  me. 

FROME.  Now,  coming  to  the  morning  of  the  7th  of 
July,  the  morning  on  which  the  cheque  was  altered. 
What  have  you  to  say  about  his  demeanour  that 
morning  ? 


30  JUSTICE  ACT  ir 

COKESON.  [To  the  jury]  If  you  ask  me,  I  don' 
think  he  was  quite  compos  when  he  did  it. 

THE  JUDGE.  [Sharply]  Are  you  suggesting  that  he 
was  insane? 

COKESON.  Not  compos. 

THE  JUDGE.  A  little  more  precision,  please. 

FROME.  [Smoothly]  Just  tell  us,  Mr.  Cokeson. 

COKESON.  [Somewhat  outraged]  Well,  in  my  opinion 
— [looking  at  the  JUDGE] — such  as  it  »s — he  was  jumpy 
at  the  time.  The  jury  will  understand  my  meaning. 

FROME.  Will  you  tell  us  how  you  came  to  that 
conclusion  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es,  I  will.  I  have  my  lunch  in 
from  the  restaurant,  a  chop  and  a  potato — saves 
time.  That  day  it  happened  to  come  just  as  Mr. 
Walter  How  handed  *nne  the  cheque.  Well,  I  like  it 
hot;  so  I  went  into  the  clerks'  office  and  I  handed 
the  cheque  to  Davis,  the  other  clerk,  and  told  him  to 
get  change.  I  noticed  young  Falder  walking  up  and 
down.  I  said  to  him:  "This  is  not  the  Zoological 
Gardens,  Falder." 

FROME.  Do  you  remember  what  he  answered  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es:  "I  wish  to  God  it  were!"  Struck 
me  as  funny. 

FROME.  Did  you  notice  anything  else  peculiar? 

COKESON.  I  did. 

FROMK.  What  was  that  ? 

COKESON.  His  collar  was  unbuttoned.  Now,  I  like 
a  young  man  to  be  neat.  I  said  to  him:  "Your 
collar's  unbuttoned." 


ACT  n  JUSTICE  31 

FROME  And  what  did  he  answer? 

COKESON.  Stared  at  me.     It  wasn't  nice. 

THE  JUDGE.  Stared  at  you  ?  Isn't  that  a  very 
common  practice? 

COKESON.  Ye-es,  but  it  was  the  look  in  his  eyes.  I 
can't  explain  my  meaning — it  was  funny. 

FROME.  Had  you  ever  seen  such  a  look  in  his  eyes 
before  ? 

COKESON.  No.  If  I  had  I  should  have  spoken  to 
the  partners.  We  can't  have  anything  eccentric  in 
our  profession. 

THE  JUDGE.  Did  you  speak  to  them  on  that  oc- 
casion ? 

COKESON.  [Confidentially]  Well,  I  didn't  like  to 
trouble  them  about  prime  facey  evidence. 

FROME.  But  it  made  a  very  distinct  impression  on 
your  mind  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es.  The  clerk  Davis  could  have  told 
you  the  same. 

FROME.  Quite  so.  It's  very  unfortunate  that  we've 
not  got  him  here.  Now  can  you  tell  me  of  the  morning 
on  which  the  discovery  of  the  forgery  was  made? 
That  would  be  the  18th.  Did  anything  happen  that 
morning  ? 

COKESON.  [With  his  hand  to  his  ear]  I'm  a  little 
deaf. 

FROME.  Was  there  anything  in  the  course  of  that 
morning — I  mean  before  the  discovery — that  caught 
your  attention  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es — a  woman. 


32  JUSTICE  ACT  ii 

THE  JUDGE.  How  is  this  relevant,  Mr.  Frome  ? 

FROME.  I  am  trying  to  establish  the  state  of  mind 
'n  which  the  prisoner  committed  this  act,  my  lord. 

THE  JUDGE.  I  quite  appreciate  that.  But  this  was 
long  after  the  act. 

FROME.  Yes,  my  lord,  but  it  contributes  to  my 
contention. 

THE  JUDGE.  Well! 

FROME.  You  say  a  woman.  Do  you  mean  that  she 
came  to  the  office? 

COKESON.  Ye-es. 

FROME.  What  for  ? 

COKESON.  Asked  to  see  young  Falder;  he  was  out 
at  the  moment. 

FROME.  Did  you  see  her  ? 

COKESON.  I  did. 

FROME.  Did  she  come  alone? 

COKESON.  [Confidentially]  Well,  there  you  put  me 
in  a  difficulty.  I  mustn't  tell  you  what  the  office- 
boy  told  me. 

FROME.  Quite  so,  Mr.  Cokeson,  quite  so 

COKESON.  [Breaking  in  with  an  air  of  "  You  are 
young — leave  it  to  me"]  But  I  think  we  can  get 
round  it.  In  answer  to  a  question 'put  to  her  by  a 
third  party  the  woman  said  to  me:  "They're  mine, 
sir." 

THE  JUDGE.  What  are?    What  were? 

COKESON.  Her  children.     They  were  outside. 

THE  JUDGE.  How  do  you  know  ? 

COKESON.  Your  lordship  mustn't  ask  me  that,  or  I 


ACT  n  JUSTICE  33 

shall  have  to  tell  you  what  I  was  told — and  that'd 
never  do. 

THE  JUDGE.  [Smiling]  The  office-boy  made  a  state- 
ment. 

COKESON.  Egg-zactly. 

FROME.  What  I  want  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Cokeson,  is 
this.  In  the  course  of  her  appeal  to  see  Falder,  did 
the  woman  say  anything  that  you  specially  remem- 
ber? 

COKESON.  [Looking  at  him  as  if  to  encourage  him  to 
complete  the  sentence]  A  leetle  more,  sir. 

FROME.  Or  did  she  not  ? 

COKESON.  She  did.  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  have 
led  me  to  the  answer. 

FROME.  [With  an  irritated  smile]  Will  you  tell  the 
jury  what  it  was? 

COKESON.  "It's  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

FOREMAN  OP  THE  JURY.  Do  you  mean  the  woman 
said  that? 

COKESON.  [Nodding]  It's  not  the  sort  of  thing  you 
like  to  have  said  to  you. 

FROME.  [A  little  impatiently]  Did  Falder  come  in 
while  she  was  there?  [COKESON  nods]  And  she  saw 
him,  and  went  away? 

COKESON.  Ah!  there  I  can't  follow  you.  I  didn't 
see  her  go. 

FROME.  Well,  is  she  there  now  ? 

COKESON.  [With  an  indulgent  smile]  No! 

FROME.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Cokeson.      [He  sits  dawn. 

CLEAVER.  [Rising]  You  say  that  on  the  morning  of 


34  JUSTICE  ACT  n 

the  forgery  the  prisoner  was  jumpy.     Well,  now,  sir, 
what  precisely  do  you  mean  by  that  word  ? 

COKESON.  [Indulgently]  I  want  you  to  understand. 
Have  you  ever  seen  a  dog  that's  lost  its  master?  He 
was  kind  of  everywhere  at  once  with  his  eyes. 

CLEAVER.  Thank  you;  I  was  coming  to  his  eyes. 
You  called  them  "funny."  What  are  we  to  under- 
stand by  that  ?  Strange,  or  what  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es,  funny. 

CLEAVER.  [Sharply]  Yes,  sir,  but  what  may  be 
funny  to  you  may  not  be  funny  to  me,  or  to  the  jury. 
Did  they  look  frightened,  or  shy,  or  fierce,  or 
what? 

COKESON.  You  make  it  very  hard  for  me.  I  give 
you  the  word,  and  you  want  me  to  give  you  another. 

CLEAVER.  [Rapping  his  desk]  Does  "funny"  mean 
mad? 

COKESON.  Not  mad,  fun 

CLEAVER.  Very  well!  Now  you  say  he  had  his 
collar  unbuttoned  ?  Was  it  a  hot  day  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es;  I  think  it  was. 

CLEAVER.  And  did  he  button  it  when  you  called 
his  attention  to  it? 

COKESON.  Ye-es,  I  think  he  did. 

CLEAVER.  Would  you  say  that  that  denoted  in- 
sanity ? 

He  sits  down.     COKESON,  ivho  has  opened  his 
mouth  to  reply,  is  left  gaping. 

FROME.  [Rising  hastily]  Have  you  ever  caught  him 
in  that  dishevelled  state  before? 


ACT  ii  JUSTICE  35 

COKESON.  No!     He  was  always  clean  and  quiet. 
FHOME.  That  will  do,  thank  you. 

COKESON  turns  blandly  to  the  JUDGE,  as  though 
to  rebuke  counsel  for  not  remembering  that 
the  JUDGE  might  wish  to  have  a  chance; 
arriving  at  the  conclusion  that  he  is  tp  be 
asked  ncthing  further,  he  turns  and  descends 
from  the  box,  and  sits  down  next  to  JAMES 
and  WALTER. 

FROME.  Ruth  Honeywill. 

RUTH  comes  info  court,  and  takes  her  stand 
stoically  in  the  witness-box.  She  is  sworn. 

FROME.  What  is  your  name,  please? 

RUTH.  Ruth  Honeywill. 

FROME.  How  old  are  you  ? 

RUTH.  Twenty-six. 

FROME.  You  are  a  married  woman,  living  with  your 
husband?     A  li Hie  louder. 

RUTH.  No,  sir;  not  since  July. 

FROME.  Have  you  any  children  ? 

RUTH.  Yes,  sir,  two. 

FROME.  Are  they  living  with  you  ? 

RUTH.  Yes,  sir. 

FROME.  You  know  the  prisoner? 

RUTH.  [Looking  at  him]  Yes. 

FROME.  What  was  the  nature  of  your  relations  with 
him? 

RUTH.  We  were  friends. 

THE  JUDGE.  Friends? 


36  JUSTICE  ACT  u 

RUTH.  [Simply]  Lovers,  sir. 

THE  JUDGE.  [Sharply]  In  what  sense  do  you  use 
that  word? 

RUTH.  We  love  each  other. 

THE  JUDGE.  Yes,  but 

RUTH.  [Shaking  her  head]  No,  your  lordship — not 
yet. 

THE  JUDGE.  Not  yet!  H'm!  [He  looks  from  RUTH 
to  FALDER]  Well! 

FROME.  What  is  your  husband  ? 

RUTH.  Traveller. 

FROME.  And  what  was  the  nature  of  your  married 
life? 

RUTH.  [Shaking  her  head]  It  don't  bear  talking 
about. 

FROME.  Did  he  ill-treat  you,  or  what  ? 

RUTH.  Ever  since  my  first  was  born. 

FROME.  In  what  way? 

RUTH.  I'd  rather  not  say.     All  sorts  of  ways. 

THE  JUDGE.  I  am  afraid  I  must  stop  this,  you  know 

RUTH.  [Pointing  to  FALDER]  He  offered  to  take  me 
out  of  it,  sir.  We  were  going  to  South  America. 

FROME.  [Hastily]  Yes,  quite — and  what  prevented 
you? 

RUTH.  I  was  outside  his  office  when  he  was  taken 
away.  It  nearly  broke  my  heart. 

FROME.  You  knew,  then,  that  he  had  been  arrested  ? 

RUTH.  Yes,  sir.  I  called  at  his  office  afterwards, 
and  [pointing  to  COKESON]  that  gentleman  told  me  all 
about  it. 


ACT  n  JUSTICE  37 

FBOME.  Now,  do  you  remember  the  morning  of 
Friday,  July  7th  ? 

RUTH.  Yes. 

FBOME.  Why? 

RUTH.  My  husband  nearly  strangled  me  that 
morning. 

THE  JUDGE.  Nearly  strangled  you! 

RUTH.  [Bowing  her  head]  Yes,  my  lord. 

FROME.  With  his  hands,  or ? 

RUTH.  Yes,  I  just  managed  to  get  away  from 
him.  I  went  straight  to  my  friend.  It  was  eight 
o'clock. 

THE  JUDGE.  In  the  morning?  Your  husband  was 
not  under  the  influence  of  liquor  then  ? 

RUTH.  It  wasn't  always  that. 

FROME.  In  what  condition  were  you  ? 

RUTH.  In  very  bad  condition,  sir.  My  dress  was 
torn,  and  I  was  half  choking. 

FROME.  Did  you  tell  your  friend  what  had  hap- 
pened? 

RUTH.  Yes.    I  wish  I  never  had. 

FROME.  It  upset  him? 

RUTH.  Dreadfully. 

FROME.  Did  he  ever  speak  to  you  about  a  cheque? 

RUTH.  Never. 

FROME.  Did  he  ever  give  you  any  money  ? 

RUTH.  Yes. 

FROME.  When  was  that  ? 

RUTH.  On  Saturday. 

FBOME.  The  8th? 


38  JUSTICE  ACT  ii 

RUTH.  To  buy  an  outfit  for  me  and  the  children 
and  get  all  ready  to  start. 

FROME.  Did  that  surprise  you,  or  not? 

RUTH.  What,  sir? 

FROME.  That  he  had  money  to  give  you. 

RUTH.  Yes,  because  on  the  morning  when  my 
husband  nearly  killed  me  my  friend  cried  because 
he  hadn't  the  money  to  get  me  away.  He  told  me 
afterwards  he'd  come  into  a  windfall. 

FROME.  And  when  did  you  last  see  him? 

RUTH.  The  day  he  was  taken  away,  sir.  It  was 
the  day  we  were  to  have  started. 

FROME.  Oh,  yes,  the  morning  of  the  arrest.  Well, 
did  you  see  him  at  all  between  the  Friday  and  that 
morning  ?  [RUTH  nods]  What  was  his  manner  then  ? 

RUTH.  Dumb-like — sometimes  he  didn't  seem  able 
to  say  a  word. 

FROME.  As  if  something  unusual  had  happened  to 
him? 

RUTH.  Yes. 

FROME.  Painful,  or  pleasant,  or  what? 

RUTH.  Like  a  fate  hanging  over  him. 

FROME.  [Hesitating]  Tell  me,  did  you  love  the  pris- 
oner very  much  ? 

RUTH.  [Bounng  her  head]  Yes. 

FROME.  And  had  he  a  very  great  affection  for  you  ? 

RUTH.  [Looking  at  F  ALDER]  Yes,  sir. 

FROME.  Now,  ma'am,  do  you  or  do  you  not  think 
that  your  danger  and  unhappiness  would  seriously 
affect  his  balance,  his  control  over  his  actions  ? 


ACT  n  JUSTICE  39 

RUTH.  Yes. 

FROME.  His  reason,  even  ? 

RUTH.  For  a  moment  like,  I  think  it  would. 

FROME.  Was  he  very  much  upset  that  Friday  morn- 
ing, or  was  he  fairly  calm? 

RUTH.  Dreadfully  upset.  I  could  hardly  bear  to 
let  him  go  from  me. 

FROME.  Do  you  still  love  him  ? 

RUTH.  [With  her  eyes  on  FALDER]  He's  ruined 
himself  for  me. 

FROME.  Thank  you. 

He  sits  down.     RUTH  remains  stoically  upright 
in  the  witness-box. 

CLEAVER.  [In  a  considerate  voice]  When  you  left 
him  on  the  morning  of  Friday  the  7th  you  would  not 
say  that  he  was  out  of  his  mind,  I  suppose  ? 

RUTH.  No,  sir. 

CLEAVER.  Thank  you;  I've  no  further  questions  to 
ask  you. 

RUTH.  [Bending  a  little  forward  to  the  jury]  I  would 
have  done  the  same  for  him;  I  would  indeed. 

THE  JUDGE.  Please,  please!  You  say  your  married 
life  is  an  unhappy  one  ?  Faults  on  both  sides  ? 

RUTH.  Only  that  I  never  bowed  down  to  him.  I 
don't  see  why  I  should,  sir,  not  to  a  man  like  that. 

THE  JUDGE.  You  refused  to  obey  him  ? 

RUTH.  [Avoiding  the  question]  I've  always  studied 
him  to  keep  things  nice. 

THE  JUDGE.  Until  you  met  the  prisoner — was 
that  it? 


40  JUSTICE  *cr  n 

RUTH.  No;  even  after  that. 

THE  JUDGE.  I  ask,  you  know,  because  you  seem  to 
me  to  glory  in  this  affection  of  yours  for  the  prisoner. 

RUTH.  [Hesitating]  I — I  do.     It's  the  only  thing  in 
my  life  now. 

THE  JUDGE.  [Staring  at  her  hard]  Well,  step  down, 
please. 

RUTH   looks  at  FALDER,  then  passes  quietly 
down  and  takes  her  seat  among  the  witnesses. 

FROME.  I  call  the  prisoner,  my  lord. 

FALDER  leaves  tlie  dock;  goes  into  the  ivitnest- 
box,  and  is  duly  sworn. 

FROME.  What  is  your  name  ? 

FALDER.  William  Falder. 

FROME.  And  age  ? 

FALDER.  Twenty-three. 

FROME.  You  are  not  married  ? 

FALDER  shakes  his  head. 

FROME.  How  long  have  you  known  the  last  witness  ? 

FALDER.  Six  months. 

FROME.  Is  her  account  of  the  relationship  between 
you  a  correct  one? 

FALDER.  Yes. 

FROME.  You    became   devotedly   attached   to  her, 
however  ? 

FALDER.  Yes. 

THE  JUDGE.  Though  you  knew  she  was  a  married 
woman  ? 

FALDER.  I  couldn't  help  it,  your  lordship. 

THE  JUDGE.  Couldn't  help  it? 


ACT  n  JUSTICE  41 

FALDER.  I  didn't  seem  able  to. 

The  JUDGE  slightly  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

FROME.  How  did  you  come  to  know  her? 

FALDER.  Through  my  married  sister. 

FROME.  Did  you  know  whether  she  was  happy  with 
her  husband  ? 

FALDER.  It  was  trouble  all  the  time. 

FROME.  You  knew  her  husband  ? 

FALDER.  Only  through  her — he's  a  brute. 

THE  JUDGE.  I  can't  allow  indiscriminate  abuse  of 
a  person  not  present. 

FROME.  [Bouring]  If  your  lordship  pleases.  [To 
FALDER]  You  admit  altering  this  cheque  ? 

FALDER  bows  his  head. 

FROME.  Carry  your  mind,  please,  to  the  morning 
of  Friday,  July  the  7th,  and  tell  the  jury  what  happened. 

FALDER.  [Turning  to  the  jury]  I  was  having  my 
breakfast  when  she  came.  Her  dress  was  all  torn, 
and  she  was  gasping  and  couldn't  seem  to  get  her 
breath  at  all;  there  were  the  marks  of  his  fingers  round 
her  throat;  her  arm  was  bruised,  and  the  blood  had 
got  into  her  eyes  dreadfully.  It  frightened  me,  and 
then  when  she  told  me,  I  felt — I  felt — well — it  was  too 
much  for  me!  [Hardening  suddenly]  If  you'd  seen  it, 
having  the  feelings  for  her  that  I  had,  you'd  have  felt 
the  same,  I  know. 

FROME.  Yes? 

FALDER.  When  she  left  me — because  I  had  to  go 
to  the  office — I  was  out  of  my  senses  for  fear  that 
he'd  do  it  again,  and  thinking  what  I  could  do.  I 


42  JUSTICE  ACT  H 

couldn't  work — all  the  morning  I  was  like  that— 
simply  couldn't  fix  my  mind  on  anything.  I  couldn't 
think  at  all.  I  seemed  to  have  to  keep  moving.  When 
Davis — the  other  clerk — gave  me  the  cheque — he  said: 
"It'll  do  you  good,  Will,  to  have  a  run  with  this. 
You  seem  half  off  your  chump  this  morning."  Then 
when  I  had  it  in  my  hand — I  don't  know  how  it  came, 
but  it  just  flashed  across  me  that  if  I  put  the  t  y  and 
the  nought  there  would  be  the  money  to  get  her  away. 
It  just  came  and  went — I  never  thought  of  it  again. 
Then  Davis  went  out  to  his  luncheon,  and  I  don't 
really  remember  what  I  did  till  I'd  pushed  the  cheque 
through  to  the  cashier  under  the  rail.  I  remember 
his  saying  "Gold  or  notes?"  Then  I  suppose  I  knew 
what  I'd  done.  Anyway,  when  I  got  outside  I  wanted 
to  chuck  myself  under  a  'bus;  I  wanted  to  throw  the 
money  away;  but  it  seemed  I  was  in  for  it,  so  I  thought 
at  any  rate  I'd  save  her.  Of  course  the  tickets  I  took 
for  the  passage  and  the  little  I  gave  her's  been  wasted, 
and  all,  except  what  I  was  obliged  to  spend  myself,  I've 
restored.  I  keep  thinking  over  and  over  however  it  was 
I  came  to  do  it,  and  how  I  can't  have  it  all  again  to  do 
differently! 

FALDER  is  silent,  twisting  his  hands  before 
him. 

FROME.  How  far  is  it  from  your  office  to  the  bank  ? 

FALDER.  Not  more  than  fifty  yards,  sir. 

FROME.  From  the  time  Davis  went  out  to  lunch  to 
the  time  you  cashed  the  cheque,  how  long  do  you  say 
it  must  have  been  ? 


ACT  H  JUSTICE  43 

FALDER.  It  couldn't  have  been  four  minutes,  sir,  be- 
cause I  ran  all  ihe  way. 

FROME.  During  those  four  minutes  you  say  you 
remember  nothing  ? 

FALDER.  No,  sir;  only  that  I  ran. 

FROME.  Not  even  adding  the  t  y  and  the  nought  ? 

FALDER.  No,  sir.     I  don't  really. 

FROME  sits  down,  and  CLEAVER  rises. 

CLEAVER.  But  you  remember  running,  do  you  ? 

FALDER.  I  was  all  out  of  breath  when  I  got  to  the 
bank. 

CLEAVER.  And  you  don't  remember  altering  the 
cheque  ? 

FALDER.  [Faintly]  No,  sir. 

CLEAVER.  Divested  of  the  romantic  glamour  which 
my  friend  is  casting  over  the  case,  is  this  anything 
but  an  ordinary  forgery  ?  Come. 

FALDER.  I  was  half  frantic  all  that  morning,  sir. 

CLEAVER.  Now,  now!  You  don't  deny  that  the 
t  y  and  the  nought  were  so  like  the  rest  of  the  hand- 
writing as  to  thoroughly  deceive  the  cashier? 

FALDER.  It  was  an  accident. 

CLEAVER.  [Cheerfully]  Queer  sort  of  accident,  wasn't 
it  ?  On  which  day  did  you  alter  the  counterfoil  ? 

FALDER.  [Hanging  his  head]  On  the  Wednesday 
morning. 

CLEAVER.  Was  that  an  accident  too  ? 

FALDER.  [Faintly]  No. 

CLEAVER.  To  do  that  you  had  to  watch  your  oppor- 
tunity, I  suppose? 


44  JUSTICE  ACT  n 

FALDER.  [Almost  inaudibly]  Yes. 

CLEAVER.  You  don't  suggest  that  you  were  suffering 
under  great  excitement  when  you  did  that  ? 

FALDER.  I  was  haunted. 

CLEAVER.  With  the  fear  of  being  found  out  ? 

FALDER.  [Very  low]  Yes. 

THE  JUDGE.  Didn't  it  occur  to  you  that  the  only 
thing  for  you  to  do  was  to  confess  to  your  employers, 
and  restore  the  money  ? 

FALDER.  I  was  afraid.  [There  is  silence. 

CLEAVER.  You  desired,  too,  no  doubt,  to  complete 
your  design  of  taking  this  woman  away? 

FALDER.  When  I  found  I'd  done  a  thing  like  that, 
to  do  it  for  nothing  seemed  so  dreadful.  I  might 
just  as  well  have  chucked  myself  into  the  river. 

CLEAVER.  You  knew  that  the  clerk  Davis  was  about 
to  leave  England — didn't  it  occur  to  you  when  you 
altered  this  cheque  that  suspicion  would  fall  on 
him? 

FALDER.  It  was  all  done  in  a  moment.  I  thought 
of  it  afterwards. 

CLEAVER.  And  that  didn't  lead  you  to  avow  what 
you'd  done  ? 

FALDER.  [Sullenly]  I  meant  to  write  when  I  got 
out  there — I  would  have  repaid  the  money. 

THE  JUDGE.  But  in  the  meantime  your  innocent 
fellow  clerk  might  have  been  prosecuted. 

FALDER.  I  knew  he  was  a  long  way  off,  your  lordship. 
I  thought  there'd  be  time.  I  didn't  think  they'd  find 
it  out  so  soon. 


ACT    H 


JUSTICE  45 


FROME.  I  might  remind  your  lordship  that  as  Mr. 
Walter  How  had  the  cheque-book  in  his  pocket  till 
after  Davis  had  sailed,  if  the  discovery  had  been 
made  only  one  day  later  Falder  himself  would  have 
left,  and  suspicion  would  have  attached  to  him,  and 
not  to  Davis,  from  the  beginning. 

THE  JUDGE.  The  question  is  whether  the  prisoner 
knew  that  suspicion  would  light  on  himself,  and  not 
on  Davis.  [To  FALDER  sharply]  Did  you  know  that 
Mr.  Walter  How  had  the  cheque-book  till  after  Davis 
had  sailed  ? 

FALDER.  I — I — thought — he 

THE  JUDGE.  Now  speak  the  truth — yes  or  no! 

FALDER.  [Very  low]  No,  my  lord.  I  had  no  means 
of  knowing. 

THE  JUDGE.  That  disposes  of  your  point,  Mr. 
Frcme. 

[FROME  bows  to  the  JUDGE. 

CLEAVER.  Has  any  aberration  of  this  nature  ever 
attacked  you  before? 

FALDER.  [Faintly]  No,  sir. 

CLEAVER.  You  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  go  back 
to  your  work  that  afternoon  ? 

FALDER.  Yes,  I  had  to  take  the  money  back. 

CLEAVER.  You  mean  the  nine  pounds.  Your  wits 
were  sufficiently  keen  for  you  to  remember  that? 
And  you  still  persist  in  saying  you  don't  remember 
altering  this  cheque.  [He  sits  down. 

FALDER.  If  I  hadn't  been  mad  I  should  never 
have  had  the  courage. 


46  JUSTICE  ACT  n 

FROME.  [Rising]  Did  you  have  your  lunch  before 
going  back  ? 

FALDER.  I  never  ate  a  thing  all  day;  and  at  night 
I  couldn't  sleep. 

FROME.  Now,  as  to  the  four  minutes  that  elapsed 
between  Davis's  going  out  and  your  cashing  the  cheque: 
do  you  say  that  you  recollect  nothing  during  those  four 
minutes  ? 

FALDER.  [After  a  moment]  I  remember  thinking  of 
Mr.  Cokeson's  face. 

FROME.  Of  Mr.  Cokeson's  face!  Had  that  any 
connection  with  what  you  were  doing? 

FALDER.  No,  sir. 

FROME.  Was  that  in  the  office,  before  you  ran 
out? 

FALDER.  Yes,  and  while  I  was  running. 

FROME.  And  that  lasted  till  the  cashier  said:  "Will 
you  have  gold  or  notes?" 

FALDER.  Yes,  and  then  I  seemed  to  come  to  myself 
— and  it  was  too  late. 

FROME.  Thank  you.  That  closes  the  evidence  for 
the  defence,  my  lord. 

The  JUDGE  nods,  and  FALDER  goes  back  to 
his  seat  in  the  dock. 

FROME.  [Gathering  up  notes]  If  it  please  your  lordship 
— Gentlemen  of  the  Jury, — My  friend  in  cross-examina- 
tion has  shown  a  disposition  to  sneer  at  the  defence 
which  has  been  set  up  in  this  case,  and  I  am  free  to 
admit  that  nothing  I  can  say  will  move  you,  if  the  evi- 
dence has  not  already  convinced  you  that  the  prisoner 


ACTH  JUSTICE  47 

committed  this  act  in  a  moment  when  to  all  practical 
intents  and  purposes  he  was  not  responsible  for  his 
actions;  a  moment  of  such  mental  and  moral  vacuity, 
arising  from  the  violent  emotional  agitation  under  which 
he  had  been  suffering,  as  to  amount  to  temporary 
madness.  My  friend  has  alluded  to  the  "romantic 
glamour"  with  which  I  have  sought  to  invest  this  case. 
Gentlemen,  I  have  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  have 
merely  shown  you  the  background  of  "life" — that 
palpitating  life  which,  believe  me — whatever  my  friend 
may  say — always  lies  behind  the  commission  of  a  crime. 
Now  gentlemen,  we  live  in  a  highly  civilized  age, 
and  the  sight  of  brutal  violence  disturbs  us  in  a  very 
strange  way,  even  when  we  have  no  personal  interest 
in  the  matter.  But  when  we  see  it  inflicted  on  a 
woman  whom  we  love — what  then  ?  Just  think  of 
what  your  own  feelings  would  have  been,  each  of  you, 
at  the  prisoner's  age;  and  then  look  at  him.  Well! 
he  is  hardly  the  comfortable,  shall  we  say  bucolic,  person 
likely  to  contemplate  with  equanimity  marks  of  gross 
violence  on  a  woman  to  whom  he  was  devotedly  at- 
tached. Yes,  gentlemen,  look  at  him!  He  has  not  a 
strong  face;  but  neither  has  he  a  vicious  face.  He  is  just 
the  sort  of  man  who  would  easily  become  the  prey  of 
his  emotions.  You  have  heard  the  description  of  his 
eyes.  My  friend  may  laugh  at  the  word  "funny" — 7 
think  it  better  describes  the  peculiar  uncanny  look  of 
those  who  are  strained  to  breaking-point  than  any  other 
word  which  could  have  been  used.  I  don't  pretend, 
mind  you,  that  his  mental  irresoonsibility  was  more 


48  JUSTICE  ACT  ii 

than  a  flash  of  darkness,  in  which  all  sense  of  proportion 
became  lost;  but  I  do  contend,  that,  just  as  a  man  who 
destroys  himself  at  such  a  moment  may  be,  and  often 
is,  absolved  from  the  stigma  attaching  to  the  crime  of 
self-murder,  so  he  may,  and  frequently  does,  commit 
other  crimes  while  in  this  irresponsible  condition, 
and  that  he  may  as  justly  be  acquitted  of  criminal 
intent  and  treated  as  a  patient.  I  admit  that  this  is  a 
plea  which  might  well  be  abused.  It  is  a  matter  for 
discretion.  But  here  you  have  a  case  in  which  there 
is  every  reason  to  give  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  You 
heard  me  ask  the  prisoner  what  he  thought  of  during 
those  four  fatal  minutes.  What  was  his  answer?  "I 
thought  of  Mr.  Cokeson's  face!"  Gentlemen,  no  man 
could  invent  an  answer  like  that;  it  is  absolutely  stamped 
with  truth.  You  have  seen  the  great  affection  (legiti- 
mate or  not)  existing  between  him  and  this  woman, 
who  came  here  to  give  evidence  for  him  at  the  risk  of  her 
life.  It  is  impossible  for  you  to  doubt  his  distress  on  the 
morning  when  he  committed  this  act.  We  well  know 
what  terrible  havoc  such  distress  can  make  in  weak 
and  highly  nervous  people.  It  was  all  the  work  of  a 
moment.  The  rest  has  followed,  as  death  follows  a 
stab  to  the  heart,  or  water  drops  if  you  hold  up  a  jug 
to  empty  it.  Believe  me,  gentlemen,  there  is  nothing 
more  tragic  in  life  than  the  utter  impossibility  of  chang- 
ing what  you  have  done.  Once  this  cheque  was 
altered  and  presented,  the  work  of  four  minutes — four 
mad  minutes — the  rest  has  been  silence.  But  in  those 
four  minutes  the  boy  before  you  has  slipped  through  a 


ACT  ii  JUSTICE  49 

door,  hardly  opened,  into  that  great  cage  which  never 
again  quite  lets  a  man  go — the  cage  of  the  Law.  His 
further  acts,  his  failure  to  confess,  the  alteration  of  the 
counterfoil,  his  preparations  for  flight,  are  all  evidence 
— not  of  deliberate  and  guilty  intention  when  he  com- 
mitted the  prime  act  from  which  these  subsequent  acts 
arose;  no — they  are  merely  evidence  of  the  weak  char- 
acter which  is  clearly  enough  his  misfortune.  But 
is  a  man  to  be  lost  because  he  is  bred  and  born  with  a 
weak  character  ?  Gentlemen,  men  like  the  prisoner  _ 
are  destroyed  daily  under  our  law  for  want  of  that  human  ; 
insight  which  sees  them  as  they  are,  patients,  and  not  j 
criminals.  If  the  prisoner  be  found  guilty,  and  treated 
as  though  he  were  a  criminal  type,  he  will,  as  all  experi- 
ence shows,  in  all  probability  become  one.  I  beg  you 
not  to  return  a  verdict  that  may  thrust  him  back  into 
prison  and  brand  him  for  ever.  Gentlemen,  Justice  is 
a  machine  that,  when  some  one  has  once  given  it  the 
starting  push,  rolls  on  of  itself.  Is  this  young  man  to  be 
ground  to  pieces  under  this  machine  for  an  act  which 
at  the  worst  was  one  of  weakness?  Is  he  to  become 
a  member  of  the  luckless  crews  that  man  those  dark, 
ill-starred  ships  called  prisons?  Is  that  to  be  his 
voyage — from  which  so  few  return  ?  Or  is  he  to  have 
another  chance,  to  be  still  looked  on  as  one  who  has 
gone  a  little  astray,  but  who  will  come  back?  I  urge 
you,  gentlemen,  do  not  ruin  this  young  man!  For, 
as  a  result  of  those  four  minutes,  ruin,  utter  and  irre- 
trievable, stares  him  in  the  face.  He  can  be  saved 
now.  Imprison  him  as  a  criminal,  and  I  affirm  to  you 


50  JUSTICE  ACT  n 

that  he  will  be  lost.  He  has  neither  the  face  nor  the 
manner  of  one  who  can  survive  that  terrible  ordeal. 
Weigh  in  the  scales  his  criminality  and  the  suffering  he 
has  undergone.  The  latter  is  ten  times  heavier  already. 
He  has  lain  in  prison  under  this  charge  for  more  than 
two  months.  Is  he  likely  ever  to  forget  that  ?  Imagine 
the  anguish  of  his  mind  during  that  time.  He  has  had 
his  punishment,  gentlemen,  you  may  depend.  The 
rolling  of  the  chariot-wheels  of  Justice  over  this  boy 
began  when  it  was  decided  to  prosecute  him.  We  are 
now  already  at  the  second  stage.  If  you  permit  it 
to  go  on  to  the  third  I  would  not  give — that  for  him. 

He  holds  up  finger  and  thumb  in  the  form  of  a 

circle,  drops  his  hand,  and  sits  down. 
The  jury  stir,  and  consult  each  other's  faces; 
then  they  turn  towards  the  counsel  for  the 
Crown,  who  rises,  and,  fixing  his  eyes  on  a 
spot  that  seems  to  give  him  satisfaction, 
slides  them  every  now  and  then  towards 
the  jury. 

CLEAVER.  May  it  please  your  lordship — [Rising  on 
his  toes]  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury, — The  facts  in  this 
case  are  not  disputed,  and  the  defence,  if  my  friend  will 
allow  me  to  say  so,  is  so  thin  that  I  don't  propose  to 
waste  the  time  of  the  Court  by  taking  you  over  the 
evidence.  The  plea  is  one  of  temporary  insanity. 
Well,  gentlemen,  I  daresay  it  is  clearer  to  me  than 
it  is  to  you  why  this  rather — what  shall  we  call  it? — 
bizarre  defence  has  been  set  up.  The  alternative  would 
have  been  to  plead  guilty.  Now,  gentlemen,  if  the 


ACT  ii  JUSTICE  51 

prisoner  had  pleaded  guilty  my  friend  would  have  had 
to  rely  on  a  simple  appeal  to  his  lordship.  Instead  of 
that,  he  has  gone  into  the  byways  and  hedges  and  found 
this — er — peculiar  plea,  which  has  enabled  him  to 
show  you  the  proverbial  woman,  to  put  her  in  the  box — 
to  give,  in  fact,  a  romantic  glow  to  this  affair.  I  com- 
pliment my  friend;  I  think  it  highly  ingenious  of  him. 
By  these  means,  he  has — to  a  certain  extent — got  round 
the  Law.  He  has  brought  the  whole  story  of  motive 
and  stress  out  in  court,  at  first  hand,  in  a  way  that  he 
would  not  otherwise  have  been  able  to  do.  But  when 
you  have  once  grasped  that  fact,  gentlemen,  you  have 
grasped  everything.  [With  good-humoured  contempt] 
For  look  at  this  plea  of  insanity;  we  can't  put  it  lower 
than  that.  You  have  heard  the  woman.  She  has 
every  reason  to  favour  the  prisoner,  but  what  did  she 
say  ?  She  said  that  the  prisoner  was  not  insane  when 
she  left  him  in  the  morning.  If  he  were  going  out  of 
his  mind  through  distress,  that  was  obviously  the  mo- 
ment when  insanity  would  have  shown  itself.  You 
have  heard  the  managing  clerk,  another  witness  for 
the  defence.  With  some  difficulty  I  elicited  from  him 
the  admission  that  the  prisoner,  though  jumpy  (a  word 
that  he  seemed  to  think  you  would  understand,  gen- 
tlemen, and  I'm  sure  I  hope  you  do),  was  not  mad 
when  the  cheque  was  handed  to  Davis.  I  agree  with 
my  friend  that  it's  unfortunate  that  we  have  not  got 
Davis  here,  but  the  prisoner  has  told  you  the  words 
with  which  Davis  in  turn  handed  him  the  cheque;  he 
obviously,  therefore,  was  not  mad  when  he  received  it, 


52  JUSTICE  ACT  n 

or  he  would  not  have  remembered  those  words.  The 
cashier  has  told  you  that  he  was  certainly  in  his  senses 
when  he  cashed  it.  We  have  therefore  the  plea  that  a 
man  who  is  sane  at  ten  minutes  past  one,  and  sane  at 
fifteen  minutes  past,  may,  for  the  purposes  of  avoiding 
the  consequences  of  a  crime,  call  himself  insane  between 
those  points  of  time.  Really,  gentlemen,  this  is  so 
peculiar  a  proposition  that  I  am  not  disposed  to  weary 
you  with  further  argument.  You  will  form  your  own 
opinion  of  its  value.  My  friend  has  adopted  this  way 
of  saying  a  great  deal  to  you — and  very  eloquently — 
on  the  score  of  youth,  temptation,  and  the  like.  I 
might  point  out,  however,  that  the  offence  with  which  the 
prisoner  is  charged  is  one  of  the  most  serious  known  to 
our  law;  and  there  are  certain  features  in  this  case, 
such  as  the  suspicion  which  he  allowed  to  rest  on 
his  innocent  fellow-clerk,  and  his  relations  with  this 
married  woman,,  which  will  render  it  difficult  for  you  to 
attach  too  much  importance  to  such  pleading.  I  ask 
you,  in  short,  gentlemen,  for  that  verdict  of  guilty 
which,  in  the  circumstances,  I  regard  you  as,  unfortu- 
nately, bound  to  record. 

Letting  his  eyes  travel  from  the  JUDGE  and 

the  jury  to  FROME,  he  sits  down. 
THE  JUDGE.  [Bending  a  little  towards  the  jury,  and 
speaking  in  a  business-like  voice]  Gentlemen,  you 
have  heard  the  evidence,  and  the  comments  on  it. 
My  only  business  is  to  make  clear  to  you  the  issues  you 
have  to  try.  The  facts  are  admitted,  so  far  as  the 
alteration  of  this  cheque  and  counterfoil  by  the  pris- 


ACT  II 


JUSTICE  53 


oner.  The  defence  set  up  is  that  he  was  not  in  a  re- 
sponsible condition  when  he  committed  the  crime. 
Well,  you  have  heard  the  prisoner's  story,  and  the 
evidence  of  the  other  witnesses — so  far  as  it  bears  on 
the  point  of  insanity.  If  you  think  that  what  you  have 
heard  establishes  the  fact  that  the  prisoner  was  insane 
at  the  time  of  the  forgery,  you  will  find  him  guilty, 
but  insane.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  conclude  from 
what  you  have  seen  and  heard  that  the  prisoner  was 
sane — and  nothing  short  of  insanity  will  count — you 
will  find  him  guilty.  In  reviewing  the  testimony  as 
to  his  mental  condition  you  must  bear  in  mind  very 
carefully  the  evidence  as  to  his  demeanour  and  conduct 
both  before  and  after  the  act  of  forgery — the  evidence 
of  the  prisoner  himself,  of  the  woman,  of  the  witness — er 
— Cokeson,  and — er — of  the  cashier.  And  in  regard 
to  that  I  especially  direct  your  attention  to  the  prisoner's 
admission  that  the  idea  of  adding  the  t  y  and  the  nought 
did  come  into  his  mind  at  the  moment  when  the  cheque 
was  handed  to  him;  and  also  to  the  alteration  of  the 
counterfoil,  and  to  his  subsequent  conduct  generally. 
The  bearing  of  all  this  on  the  question  of  premeditation 
(and  premeditation  will  imply  sanity)  is  very  obvious. 
You  must  not  allow  any  considerations  of  age  or  tempta- 
tion to  weigh  with  you  in  the  finding  of  your  verdict. 
Before  you  can  come  to  a  verdict  of  guilty  but  insane 
you  must  be  well  and  thoroughly  convinced  that  the 
condition  of  his  mind  was  such  as  would  have  qualified 
him  at  the  moment  for  a  lunatic  asylum.  [He  pauses; 
then,  seeing  that  the  jury  are  doubtful  whether  to  retire 


54  JUSTICE 


ACT    II 


or  no,  adds:]  You  may  retire,  gentlemen,  if  you  wish  to 
do  so. 

The  jury  retire  by  a  door  behind  the  JUDGE. 
The  JUDGE  bends  over  his  notes.  FALDER, 
leaning  from  the  dock,  speaks  excitedly  to  his 
solicitor,  pointing  doivn  at  RUTH.  The  so- 
licitor in  turn  speaks  to  FROME. 

FROME.  [Rising]  My  lord.  The  prisoner  is  very 
anxious  that  I  should  ask  you  if  your  lordship  would 
kindly  request  the  reporters  not  to  disclose  the  name 
of  the  woman  witness  in  the  Press  reports  of  these 
proceedings.  Your  lordship  will  understand  that  the 
consequences  might  be  extremely  serious  to  her. 

THE  JUDGE.  [Pointedly — with  the  suspicion  of  a 
smile}  Well,  Mr.  Frome,  you  deliberately  took  this 
course  which  involved  bringing  her  here. 

FROME.  [With  an  ironic  bow]  If  your  lordship 
thinks  I  could  have  brought  out  the  full  facts  in  any 
other  way  ? 

THE  JUDGE.  H'm!    Well. 

FROME.  There  is  very  real  danger  to  her,  your 
lordship. 

THE  JUDGE.  You  see,  I  have  to  take  your  word  for 
all  that. 

FROME.  If  your  lordship  would  be  so  kind.  I  can 
assure  your  lordship  that  I  am  not  exaggerating. 

THE  JUDGE.  It  goes  very  much  against  the  grain 
with  me  that  the  name  of  a  witness  should  ever  be 
suppressed.  [With  a  glance  at  FALDER,  who  is  gripping 
and  clasping  his  hands  before  him,  and  then  at  RUTH, 


ACT  II 


JUSTICE  55 


who  is  sitting  perfectly  rigid  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
FALDER]  I'll  consider  your  application.  It  must  de- 
pend. I  have  to  remember  that  she  may  have  come 
here  to  commit  perjury  on  the  prisoner's  behalf. 

P'ROME.  Your  lordship,  I  really- 

THE  JUDGE.  Yes,  yes — I  don't  suggest  anything  of 
the  sort,  Mr.  Frome.     Leave  it  at  that  for  the  moment. 
As  he  finishes  speaking,  the  jury  return,  and 
file  back  into  the  box. 

CLERK  OF  ASSIZE.  Gentlemen,  are  you  agreed  on 
your  verdict  ? 

FOREMAN.  We  are. 

CLERK  OF  ASSIZE.  Is  it  Guilty,  or  Guilty  but  in- 
sane? 

FOREMAN.  Guilty. 

The  JUDGE  nods;  then,  gathering  up  his  notes, 
sits  looking  at  FALDER,  who  stands  motion- 
less. 

FROME.  [Rising]  If  your  lordship  would  allow  me 
to  address  you  in  mitigation  of  sentence.  I  don't 
know  if  your  lordship  thinks  I  can  add  anything  to 
what  I  have  said  to  the  jury  on  the  score  of  the  prisoner's 
youth,  and  the  great  stress  under  which  he  acted. 

THE  JUDGE.  I  don't  think  you  can,  Mr.  Frome. 

FROME.  If  your  lordship  says  so — I  do  most  earnestly 
beg  your  lordship  to  give  the  utmost  weight  to  my  plea. 

[He  sits  down. 

THE  JUDGE.  [To  the  CLERK]  Call  upon  him. 

THE  CLERK.  Prisoner  at  the  bar,  you  stand  con- 
victed of  felony.  Have  you  anything  to  say  for  yourself, 


56  JUSTICE  ACT  H 

why  the  Court  should  not  give  you  judgment  according 
to  law?  [F ALDER  shakes  his  head. 

THE  JUDGE.  William  Falder,  you  have  been  given 
fair  trial  and  found  guilty,  in  my  opinion  rightly  found 
guilty,  of  forgery.  [He  pauses;  then,  consulting  his 
notes,  goes  on]  The  defence  was  set  up  that  you  were 
not  responsible  for  your  actions  at  the  moment  of 
committing  this  crime.  There  is  no  doubt,  I  think, 
that  this  was  a  device  to  bring  out  at  first  hand  the 
nature  of  the  temptation  to  which  you  succumbed.  For 
throughout  the  trial  your  counsel  was  in  reality  making 
an  appeal  for  mercy.  The  setting  up  of  this  defence 
of  course  enabled  him  to  put  in  some  evidence  that 
might  weigh  in  that  direction.  Whether  he  was  well 
advised  to  do  so  is  another  matter.  He  claimed  that 
you  should  be  treated  rather  as  a  patient  than  as  a 
criminal.  And  this  plea  of  his,  which  in  the  end 
amounted  to  a  passionate  appeal,  he  based  in  effect  on 
an  indictment  of  the  march  of  Justice,  which  he  prac- 
tically accused  of  confirming  and  completing  the  process 
of  criminality.  Now,  in  considering  how  far  I  should 
allow  weight  to  his  appeal,  I  have  a  number  of  factors 
to  take  into  account.  I  have  to  consider  on  the  one 
hand  the  grave  nature  of  your  offence,  the  deliberate 
way  in  which  you  subsequently  altered  the  counterfoil, 
the  danger  you  caused  to  an  innocent  man — and  that, 
to  my  mind,  is  a  very  grave  point — and  finally  I  have 
to  consider  the  necessity  of  deterring  others  from  follow- 
ing your  example.  On  the  other  hand,  I  have  to  bear 
in  mind  that  you  are  young,  that  you  have  hitherto 


ACT 


JUSTICE  57 


borne  a  good  character,  that  you  were,  if  I  am  to  believe 
your  evidence  and  that  of  your  witnesses,  in  a  state  of 
some  emotional  excitement  when  you  committed  thii 
crime.  I  have  every  wish,  consistently  with  my  duty  — 
not  only  to  you,  but  to  the  community  —  to  treat  you 
with  leniency.  And  this  brings  me  to  what  are  the 
determining  factors  in  my  mind  in  my  consideration 
of  your  case.  You  are  a  clerk  in  a  lawyer's  office  —  that 
is  a  very  serious  element  in  this  case;  there  can  be  no 
possible  excuse  made  for  you  on  the  ground  that  you 
were  not  fully  conversant  with  the  nature  of  the  crime 
you  were  committing,  and  the  penalties  that  attach  to  it. 
It  is  said,  however,  that  you  were  carried  away  by 
your  emotions.  The  story  has  been  told  here  to-day  of 
your  relations  with  this  —  er  —  Mrs.  Honeywill;  on  that 
story  both  the  defence  and  the  plea  for  mercy  were  in  ef- 
fect based.  Now  what  is  that  story  ?  It  is  that  you, 
a  young  man,  and  she,  a  young  woman,  unhappily 
married,  had  formed  an  attachment,  which  you  both 
say  —  with  what  truth  I  am  unable  to  gauge  —  had  not 
yet  resulted  in  immoral  relations,  but  which  you  both 
admit  was  about  to  result  in  such  relationship.  Your 
counsel  has  made  an  attempt  to  palliate  this,  on  the 
ground  that  the  woman  is  in  what  he  describes,  I 
think,  as  "a  hopeless  position."  As  to  that  I  can 
express  no  opinion.  She  is  a  married  woman,  and  the 
fact  is  patent  that  you  committed  this  crime  with  the 
view  of  furthering  an  immoral  design.  Now,  how- 
ever I  might  wish,  I  am  not  able  to  justify  to  my  con- 
science a  plea  for  mercy  which  has  a  basis  inimical  to 


58  JUSTICE  ACT  n 

morality.  It  is  vitiated  ab  initio,  and  would,  if  success- 
ful, free  you  for  the  completion  of  this  immoral  project. 
Your  counsel  has  made  an  attempt  to  trace  your 
offence  back  to  what  he  seems  to  suggest  is  a  defect  in 
the  marriage  law;  he  has  made  an  attempt  also  to  show 
that  to  punish  you  with  further  imprisonment  would 
be  unjust.  I  do  not  follow  him  in  these  flights.  The 
Law  is  what  it  is — a  majestic  edifice,  sheltering  all  of  us, 
each  stone  of  which  rests  on  another.  I  am  concerned 
only  with  its  administration.  The  crime  you  have 
committed  is  a  very  serious  one.  I  cannot  feel  it  in 
accordance  with  my  duty  to  Society  to  exercise  the  pow- 
ers I  have  in  your  favour.  You  will  go  to  penal  servi- 
tude for  three  years. 

FALDER,  who  throughout  the  JUDGE'S  speech 
has  looked  at  him  steadily,  lets  his  head  fall 
forward  on  his  breast.  RUTH  starts  up 
from  her  seat  as  he  is  taken  out  by  the  warders. 
There  is  a  bustle  in  court. 

THE  JUDGE.  [Speaking  to  the  reporters]  Gentlemen 
of  the  Press,  I  think  that  the  name  of  the  female  witness 
should  not  be  reported. 

The  reporters  boiv  their  acquiescence. 
THE  JUDGE.  [To  RUTH,  who  is  staring  in  the  direction 
in  which  FALDER  has  disappeared]  Do  you  understand, 
your  name  will  not  be  mentioned  ? 

COKESON.  [Pulling  her  sleeve]  The  judge  is  speaking 

to  you. 

RUTH  turm,  stares  at  the  JUDGE,  and  turns 

away. 


ACT   II 


JUSTICE  59 


THE  JUDGE.  I  shall  sit  rather  late  to-day.  Call  the 
next  case. 

CLERK  OF  ASSIZE.  [To  a  warder]  Put  up  John 
Booley. 

To  cries  of  "Witnesses  in  the  case  of  Booley": 

The  curtain  falls. 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I 

A.  prison.  A  plainly  furnished  room,  with  two  large 
barred  windows,  overlooking  the  prisoners'  exercise 
yard,  where  men,  in  yellow  clothes  marked  with 
arrows,  and  yellow  brimless  caps,  are  seen  in  single 
file  at  a  distance  of  four  yards  from  each  other, 
walking  rapidly  on  serpentine  white  lines  marked 
on  the  concrete  floor  of  the  yard.  Two  warders  in 
blue  uniforms,  with  peaked  caps  and  swords,  are 
stationed  amongst  them.  The  room  has  distempered 
walls,  a  bookcase  with  numerous  official-looking 
books,  a  cupboard  between  the  windows,  a  plan  of 
the  prison  on  the  wall,  a  writing-table  covered  with 
documents.  It  is  Christmas  Eve. 

The  GOVERNOR,  a  neat,  grave-looking  man,  with  a  trim, 
fair  moustache,  the  eyes  of  a  theorist,  and  grizzled 
hair,  receding  from  the  temples,  is  standing  close 
to  this  writing-table  looking  at  a  sort  of  rough  saw 
made  out  of  a  piece  of  metal.  The  hand  in  which 
he  holds  it  is  gloved,  for  two  fingers  are  missing. 
The  chief  warder,  WOODER,  a  tall,  thin,  military- 
61 


6«  JUSTICE  ACT  m 

looking  man  of  sixty,  ivith  grey  moustache  and 
melancholy,  monkey-like  eyes,  stands  very  upright 
two  paces  from  him. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [With  a  faint,  abstracted  smile] 
Queer-looking  affair,  Mr.  Wooder!  Where  did  you 
find  it  ? 

WOODER.  In  his  mattress,  sir.  Haven't  come 
across  such  a  thing  for  two  years  now. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [With  curiosity]  Had  he  any  set 
plan? 

WOODER.  He'd  sawed  his  window-bar  about  that 
much.  [He  holds  up  his  thumb  and  finger  a  quarter  of 
an  inch  apart] 

THE  GOVERNOR.  I'll  see  him  this  afternoon.  What'a 
his  name  ?  Moaney !  An  old  hand,  I  think  ? 

WOODER.  Yes,  sir — fourth  spell  of  penal.  You'd 
think  an  old  lag  like  him  would  have  had  more  sense 
by  now.  [With  pitying  contempt]  Occupied  his  mind, 
he  said.  Breaking  in  and  breaking  out — that's  all 
they  think  about. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Who's  next  him? 

WOODER.  O'Cleary,  sir. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  The  Irishman. 

WOODER.  Next  him  again  there's  that  young  fellow. 
Falder — star  class — and  next  him  old  Clipton. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Ah,  yes!  "The  philosopher."  I 
want  to  see  him  about  his  eyes. 

WOODER.  Curious  thing,  sir:  they  seem  to  know 
when  there's  one  of  these  tries  at  escape  going  on. 


8e.  i  JUSTICE  «S 

It  makes  them  restive — there's  a  regular  wave  going 
through  them  just  now. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Meditatively]  Odd  things — those 
waves.  [Turning  to  look  at  the  prisoners  exercising] 
Seem  quiet  enough  out  here! 

WOODER.  That  Irishman,  O'Cleary,  began  banging 
on  his  door  this  morning.  Little  thing  like  that's 
quite  enough  to  upset  the  whole  lot.  They're  just 
like  dumb  animals  at  times. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  I've  seen  it  with  horses  before 
thunder — it'll  run  right  through  cavalry  lines. 

The  prison  CHAPLAIN  has  entered.  He  is  a 
dark-haired,  ascetic  man,  in  clerical  undress, 
with  a  peculiarly  steady,  tight-lipped  face 
and  slow,  cultured  speech. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Holding  up  the  saw]  Seen  this, 
Miller? 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Useful-looking  specimen. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Do  for  the  Museum,  eh!  [He  goes 
to  the  cupboard  and  opens  it,  displaying  to  view  a  number 
of  quaint  ropes,  hooks,  and  metal  tools  with  labels  tied  on 
them]  That'll  do,  thanks,  Mr.  Wooder. 

WOODER.  [Saluting]  Thank  you,  sir.     [He  goes  out. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Account  for  the  state  of  the  men 
last  day  or  two,  Miller?  Seems  going  through  the 
whole  place. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  No.    I  don't  know  of  anything. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  By  the  way,  will  you  dine  with 
us  on  Christmas  Day  ? 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  To-morrow.    Thanks  very  much. 


64  JUSTICE  ACT  ni 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Worries  me  to  feel  the  men  dis- 
contented. [Gazing  at  the  saw]  Have  to  punish  this 
poor  devil.  Can't  help  liking  a  man  who  tries  to 
escape.  [He  places  the  saw  in  his  pocket  and  locks  the 
cupboard  again] 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Extraordinary  perverted  will-power 
— some  of  them.     Nothing  to  be  done  till  it's  broken. 
THE   GOVERNOR.  And  not  much  afterwards,   I'm 
afraid.     Ground  too  hard  for  golf  ? 

WOODER  comes  in  again. 

WOODER.  Visitor  who's  been  seeing  Q  3007  asks 
to  speak  to  you,  sir.     I  told  him  it  wasn't  usual. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  What  about  ? 
WOODER.  Shall  I  put  him  off,  sir? 
THE  GOVERNOR.  [Resignedly]  No,    no.    Let's    see 
him.    Don't  go,  Miller. 

WOODER  motions  to  some  one  without,  and  as 

the  visitor  comes  in  withdraws. 
The  visitor  is  COKESON,  who  is  attired  in  a  thick 
overcoat  to  the  knees,  woollen  gloves,  and 
carries  a  top  hat. 

COKESON.  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you.  I've  been 
talking  to  the  young  man. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  We  have  a  good  many  here. 

COKESON.  Name  of  Falder,  forgery.  [Producing  a 
card,  and  handing  it  to  the  GOVERNOR]  Firm  of  James 
and  Walter  How.  Well  known  in  the  law. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Receiving  the  card — with  a  faint 
smile]  What  do  you  want  to  see  me  about,  sir? 


sc.  i  JUSTICE  65 

COKESON.  [Suddenly  seeing  the  prisoners  at  exercise] 
Why!  what  a  sight! 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Yes,  we  have  that  privilege  from 
here;  my  office  is  being  done  up.  [Sitting  down  at  his 
table]  Now,  please  I 

COKESON.  [Dragging  his  eyes  with  difficulty  from  the 
window]  I  wanted  to  say  a  word  to  you;  I  shan't  keep 
you  long.  [Confidentially]  Fact  is,  I  oughtn't  to  be 
here  by  rights.  His  sister  came  to  me — he's  got  no 
father  and  mother — and  she  was  in  some  distress. 
"My  husband  won't  let  me  go  and  see  him,"  she 
said;  "says  he's  disgraced  the  family.  And  his  other 
sister,"  she  said,  "is  an  invalid."  And  she  asked 
me  to  come.  Well,  I  take  an  interest  in  him.  He 
was  our  junior — I  go  to  the  same  chapel — and  I  didn't 
like  to  refuse.  And  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you  was,  he 
seems  lonely  here. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Not  unnaturally. 

COKESON.  I'm  afraid  it'll  prey  on  my  mind.  I  see 
a  lot  of  them  about  working  together. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Those  are  local  prisoners.  The 
convicts  serve  their  three  months  here  in  separate 
confinement,  sir. 

COKESON.  But  we  don't  want  to  be  unreasonable. 
He's  quite  downhearted.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  to 
let  him  run  about  with  the  others. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [With  faint  amusement]  Ring  the 
bell — would  you,  Miller?  [To  COKESON]  You'd 
like  to  hear  what  the  doctor  says  about  him,  per- 
haps. 


66  JUSTICE  ACT  m 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  [Ringing  the  bell]  You  are  not 
accustomed  to  prisons,  it  would  seem,  sir. 

COKESON.  No.  But  it's  a  pitiful  sight.  He's  quite 
a  young  fellow.  I  said  to  him:  "Before  a  month's 
up,"  I  said,  "you'll  be  out  and  about  with  the  others; 
it'll  be  a  nice  change  for  you."  "A  month!"  he  said 
— like  that!  "Come!"  I  said,  "we  mustn't  exaggerate. 
What's  a  month ?  Why,  it's  nothing!"  "A  day,"  he 
said,  "shut  up  in  your  cell  thinking  and  brooding  as 
I  do,  it's  longer  than  a  year  outside.  I  can't  help  it," 
he  said;  "I  try — but  I'm  built  that  way,  Mr.  Cokeson." 
And  he  held  his  hand  up  to  his  face.  I  could  see  the 
tears  trickling  through  his  fingers.  It  wasn't  nice. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  He's  a  young  man  with  large, 
rather  peculiar  eyes,  isn't  he  ?  Not  Church  of  England, 
I  think  ? 

COKESON.  No. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  I  know. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [To  WOODER,  who  has  come  in] 
Ask  the  doctor  to  be  good  enough  to  come  here  for  a 
minute.  [WOODER  salutes,  and  goes  out]  Let's  see, 
he's  not  married  ? 

COKESON.  No.  [Confidentially]  But  there's  a  party 
he's  very  much  attached  to,  not  altogether  com-il-fo. 
It's  a  sad  story. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  If  it  wasn't  for  drink  and  women, 
sir,  this  prison  might  be  closed. 

COKESON.  [Looking  at  the  CHAPLAIN  over  his  spec- 
tacles] Ye-es,  but  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  that, 
special.  He  had  hopes  they'*'  hfe  let  her  come 


ac.  ;  JUSTICE  67 

and  see  him,  but  they  haven't.  Of  course  he  asked 
me  questions.  I  did  my  best,  but  I  couldn't  tell  the 
poor  young  fellow  a  lie,  with  him  in  here — seemed 
like  hitt.mg  him.  But  I'm  afraid  it's  made  him  worse. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  What  was  this  news  then  ? 

COKESON.  Like  this.  The  woman  had  a  nahsty, 
spiteful  feller  for  a  husband,  and  she'd  left  him.  Fact 
is,  she  was  going  away  with  our  young  friend.  It's 
not  nice — but  I've  looked  over  it.  Well,  when  he  was 
put  in  here  she  said  she'd  earn  her  living  apart,  and 
wait  for  him  to  come  out.  That  was  a  great  con- 
solation to  him.  But  after  a  month  she  came  to  me — 
I  don't  know  her  personally — and  she  said:  "I  can't 
earn  the  children's  living,  let  alone  my  own — I've  got 
no  friends.  I'm  obliged  to  keep  out  of  everybody's 
way,  else  my  husband'd  get  to  know  where  I  was.  I'm 
very  much  reduced,"  she  said.  And  she  has  lost  flesh. 
"I'll  have  to  go  in  the  workhouse!"  It's  a  painful 
story.  I  said  to  her:  "No,"  I  said,  "not  that!  I've 
got  a  wife  an'  family,  but  sooner  than  you  should  do 
that  I'll  spare  you  a  little  myself."  "Really,"  she 
said — she's  a  nice  creature — "  I  don't  like  to  take  it  from 
you.  I  think  I'd  better  go  back  to  my  husband."  Well, 
I  know  he's  a  nahsty,  spiteful  feller — drinks — but  I 
didn't  like  to  persuade  her  not  to. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Surely,  no. 

COKESON.  Ye-es,  but  I'm  sorry  now;  it's  upset  the 
*v»or  young  fellow  dreadfully.  And  what  I  wanted  to 
aay  was:  He's  got  his  three  years  to  serve.  I  want 
things  to  be  pleasant  for  him. 


68  JUSTICE  ACT  in 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  [With  a  touch  of  impatience]  The 
Law  hardly  shares  your  view,  I'm  afraid. 

COKESON.  But  I  can't  help  thinking  that  to  shut 
him  up  there  by  himself'll  turn  him  silly.  And  nobody 
wants  that,  I  s'pose.  I  don't  like  to  see  a  man  cry. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  It's  a  very  rare  thing  for  them  to 
give  way  like  that. 

COKESON.  [Looking  at  him — in  a  tone  of  sudden 
dogged  hostility]  I  keep  dogs. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Indeed? 

COKESON.  Ye-es.  And  I  say  this:  I  wouldn't  shut 
one  of  them  up  all  by  himself,  month  after  month,  not 
if  he'd  bit  me  all  over. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Unfortunately,  the  criminal  is  not 
a  dog;  he  has  a  sense  of  right  and  wrong. 

COKESON.  But  that's  not  the  way  to  make  him 
feel  it. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Ah!  there  I'm  afraid  we  must  differ. 

COKESON.  It's  the  same  with  dogs.  If  you  treat 
'em  with  kindness  they'll  do  anything  for  you;  but  to 
shut  'em  up  alone,  it  only  makes  'em  savage. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Surely  you  should  allow  those  who 
have  had  a  little  more  experience  than  yourself  to  know 
what  is  best  for  prisoners. 

COKESON.  [Doggedly]  I  know  this  young  feller, 
I've  watched  him  for  years.  He's  eurotic — got  no 
stamina.  His  father  died  of  consumption.  I'm 
thinking  of  his  future.  If  he's  to  be  kept  there  shut 
up  by  himself,  without  a  cat  to  keep  him  company, 
it'll  do  him  harm.  I  said  to  him:  "tVhere  do  you 


sc.  i  JUSTICE  69 

feel  it?"  "I  can't  tell  you,  Mr.  Cokeson,"  he  said, 
"but  sometimes  I  could  beat  my  head  against  the 
wall."  It's  not  nice. 

During  this  speech  the  DOCTOR  has  entered. 
He  is  a  medium-sized,  rather  good-looking 
man,  with  a  quick  eye.  He  stands  leaning 
against  the  window. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  This  gentleman  thinks  the  sepa- 
rate is  telling  on  Q  3007 — Falder,  young  thin  fellow, 
star  class.  What  do  you  say,  Doctor  Clements  ? 

THE  DOCTOR.  He  doesn't  like  it,  but  it's  not  doing 
him  any  harm. 

COKESON.  But  he's  told  me. 

THE  DOCTOR.  Of  course  he'd  say  so,  but  we  can 
always  tell.  He's  lost  no  weight  since  he's  been 
here. 

COKESON.  It's  his  state  of  mind  I'm  speaking  of. 

THE  DOCTOR.  His  mind's  all  right  so  far.  He's 
nervous,  rather  melancholy.  I  don't  see  signs  of 
anything  more.  I'm  watching  him  carefully. 

COKESON.  [Nonplussed]  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  [More  suavely]  It's  just  at  this 
period  that  we  are  able  to  make  some  impression  on 
them,  sir.  I  am  speaking  from  my  special  stand- 
point. 

COKESON.  [Turning  bewildered  to  the  GOVERNOR] 
I  don't  want  to  be  unpleasant,  but  having  given  him 
this  news,  I  do  feel  it's  awkward. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  I'll  make  a  point  of  seeing  him 
to-day. 


70  JUSTICE  ACT  in 

COKESON.  I'm  much  obliged  to  you.  I  thought 
perhaps  seeing  him  every  day  you  wouldn't  notice  it. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Rather  sharply]  If  any  sign  of 
injury  to  his  health  shows  itself  his  case  will  be  reported 
at  once.  That's  fully  provided  for.  [He  rises. 

COKESON.  [Following  his  own  thoughts]  Of  course, 
what  you  don't  see  doesn't  trouble  you;  but  having 
seen  him,  I  don't  want  to  have  him  on  my  mind. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  I  think  you  may  safely  leave  it  to 
us,  sir. 

COKESON.  [Mollified  and  apologetic]  I  thought  you'd 
understand  me.  I'm  a  plain  man — never  set  myself 
up  against  authority.  [Expanding  to  the  CHAPLAIN] 
Nothing  personal  meant.  Good-morning. 

As  he  goes  out  the  three  officials  do  not  look  at 
each  other,  but  their  faces  wear  peculiar 
expressions. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Our  friend  seems  to  think  that 
prison  is  a  hospital. 

COKESON.  [Returning  suddenly  with  an  apologetic  air] 
There's  just  one  little  thing.  This  woman — I  sup- 
pose I  mustn't  ask  you  to  let  him  see  her.  It'd  be 
a  rare  treat  for  them  both.  He's  thinking  about  her 
all  the  time.  Of  course  she's  not  his  wife.  But  he's 
quite  safe  in  here.  They're  a  pitiful  couple.  You 
couldn't  make  an  exception  ? 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Wearily]  As  you  say,  my  dear 
sir,  I  couldn't  make  an  exception;  he  won't  be  al- 
lowed another  visit  of  any  sort  till  he  goes  to  a  convict 
prison. 


sc.  n  JUSTICE  71 

COKESON.  I    see.     [Rather    coldly]    Sorry    to   have 

troubled  you.  [He  again  goes  out. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  [Shrugging  his  shoulders]  The  plain 

man    indeed,    poor    fellow.     Come    and    have    some 

lunch,  Clements? 

He  and  the  DOCTOR  go  out  talking. 
The  GOVERNOR,  with  a  sigh,  sits  down  at  his 
table  and  takes  up  a  pen. 

The  curtain  falls. 


SCENE  II 

Part  of  the  ground  corridor  of  the  prison.  The  walls 
are  coloured  with  greenish  distemper  up  to  a  stripe 
of  deeper  green  about  the  height  of  a  man's  shoulder, 
and  above  this  line  are  whitewashed.  The  floor  is 
of  blackened  stones.  Daylight  is  filtering  through  a 
heavily  barred  window  at  the  end.  The  doors  of 
four  cells  are  visible.  Each  cell  door  has  a  little 
round  peep-hole  at  the  level  of  a  man'*  eye,  covered 
by  a  little  round  disc,  which,  raised  upwards,  affords 
a  view  of  the  cell.  On  the  wall,  close  to  each  cell 
door,  hangs  a  little  square  board  with  the  prisoner's 
name,  number,  and  record. 

Overhead  can  be  seen  the  iron  structures  of  the  first-floor 
and  second-floor  corridors. 

The  WARDER  INSTRUCTOR,  a  bearded  man  in  blue 
uniform,  with  an  apron,  and  some  dangling  keys, 
is  just  emerging  from  one  of  the  cells. 


72  JUSTICE  ACT  m 

INSTRUCTOR.  [Speaking  from  the  door  into  the  cell] 
I'll  have  another  bit  for  you  when  that's  finished. 

O'CLEARY.  [Unseen — in  an  Irish  voice}  Little  doubt 
o'  that,  sirr. 

INSTRUCTOR.  [Gossiping]  Well,    you'd    rather   have 
Jt  than  nothing,  I  s'pose. 
O'CLEARY.  An'  that's  the  blessed  truth. 

Sounds  are  heard  of  a  cell  door  being  closed  and 

locked,  and  of  approaching  footsteps. 
INSTRUCTOR.  [In  a  sharp,  changed  voice]  Look  alive 
over  it! 

He  shuts  the  cell  door,  and  stands  at  attention. 
The    GOVERNOR    comes    walking    down    the 

corridor,  followed  by  WOODER. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  Anything  to  report  ? 
INSTRUCTOR.  [Saluting]  Q    3007    [he    points    to    a 
cell]  is  behind  with  his  work,  sir.     He'll  lose  marks 
to-day. 

The  GOVERNOR  nods  and  passes  on  to  the  end 

cell.     The  INSTRUCTOR  goes  away. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  This  is  our  maker  of  saws,  isn't 
it? 

He  takes  the  saw  from  his  pocket  as  WOODER 
throws  open  the  door  of  the  cell.  The  convict 
MOANEY  is  seen  lying  on  his  bed,  athwart 
the  cell,  with  his  cap  on.  He  springs  up  and 
stands  in  the  middle  of  the  cell.  He  is  a 
raw-boned  fellow,  about  fifty-six  years  old, 
with  outstanding  bat's  ears  and  fierce, 
staring,  steel-coloured  eyes. 


sc.  n  JUSTICE  73 

WOODEB.  Cap  off!  [MOANEY  removes  his  cap] 
Out  here!  [MOANEY  comes  to  the  door. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Beckoning  him  out  into  the  corri- 
dor, and  holding  up  the  saw — with  the  manner  of  an 
officer  speaking  to  a  private]  Anything  to  say  about  this, 
my  man?  [MOANEY  is  silent]  Come! 

MOANEY.  It  passed  the  time. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Pointing  into  the  cell]  Not  enough 
to  do,  eh? 

MOANEY.  It  don't  occupy  your  mind. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Tapping  the  saw]  You  might  find 
a  better  way  than  this. 

MOANEY.  [Sullenly]  Well!  What  way?  I  must 
keep  my  hand  in  against  the  time  I  get  out.  What's 
the  good  of  anything  else  to  me  at  my  time  of  life  ? 
[With  a  gradual  change  to  civility,  as  his  tongue  warms] 
Ye  know  that,  sir.  I'll  be  in  again  within  a  year  or 
two,  after  I've  done  this  lot.  I  don't  want  to  disgrace 
meself  when  I'm  out.  You've  got  your  pride  keeping 
the  prison  smart;  well,  I've  got  mine.  [Seeing  that 
the  GOVERNOR  is  listening  with  interest,  he  goes  on, 
pointing  to  the  saw]  I  must  be  doin'  a  little  o'  this. 
It's  no  harm  to  any  one.  I  was  five  weeks  makin'  that 
saw — a  bit  of  all  right  it  is,  too;  now  I'll  get  cells,  I 
suppose,  or  seven  days'  bread  and  water.  You  can't 
help  it,  sir,  I  know  that — I  quite  put  meself  in  your 
place. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Now,  look  here.  Moaney,  if  I  pass 
it  over  will  you  give  me  your  word  not  to  try  it  on 


74  JUSTICE  ACT  ra 

again  ?  Think !  [He  goes  into  the  cell,  walks  to  the  end 
of  it,  mounts  the  stool,  and  tries  the  window-bars] 
THE  GOVERNOR.  [Returning]  Well  ? 
MOANEY.  [Who  has  been  reflecting]  I've  got  another 
six  weeks  to  do  in  here,  alone.     I  can't  do  it  and 
think  o'  nothing.    I  must  have  something  to  interest  me. 
You've  made  me  a  sporting  offer,  sir,  but  I  can't 
pass  my  word  about  it.     I  shouldn't  like  to  deceive 
a    gentleman.  [Pointing    into    the    cell]  Another   four 
hours'  steady  work  would  have  done  it. 

THE   GOVERNOR.  Yes,   and   what   then?    Caught, 
brought  back,  punishment.     Five  weeks'  hard  work 
to  make  this,  and  cells  at  the  end  of  it,  while  they 
put  a  new  bar  to  your  window.     Is  it  worth  it,  Moaney  ? 
MOANEY.  [With  a  sort  of  fierceness]  Yes,  it  is. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  [Putting  his  hand  to  his  brow]  Oh, 
well!    Two  days'  cells — bread  and  water. 
MOANEY.  Thank  'e,  sir. 

He  turns  quickly  like  an  animal  and  slips  into 

his  cell. 

The  GOVERNOR  looks  after  him  and  shakes 
his  head  as  "W  CODER  closes  and  locks  the 
cell  door. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  Open  Clipton's  cell. 

WOODER  opens  the  door  of  CLIPTON'S  cell. 
CLIFTON  is  sitting  on  a  stool  just  inside  the 
door,  at  work  on  a  pair  of  trousers.  He  is 
a  small,  thick,  oldish  man,  with  an  almost 
shaven  head,  and  smouldering  little  dark 
eyes  behind  smoked  spectacles.  He  gets  up 


sc.  n  JUSTICE  75 

and  stands  motionless  in  the  doorway,  peer- 
ing at  his  visitors. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Beckoning]  Come  out  here  a  min- 
ute, Clipton. 

CLIFTON,  with  a  sort  of  dreadful  quietness, 
comes  into  the  corridor,  the  needle  and  thread 
in  his  hand.  The  GOVERNOR  signs  to 
WOODER,  who  goes  into  the  cell  and  inspects 
it  carefully. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  How  are  your  eyes  ? 
CLIPTON.  I  don't  complain  of  them.  I  don't  see 
the  sun  here.  [He  makes  a  stealthy  movement,  protruding 
his  neck  a  little]  There's  just  one  thing,  Mr.  Governor, 
as  you're  speaking  to  me.  I  wish  you'd  ask  the  cove 
next  door  here  to  keep  a  bit  quieter. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  What's  the  matter?  I  don't  want 
any  tales,  Clipton. 

CLIPTON.  He  keeps  me  awake.  I  don't  know  who 
he  is.  [With  contempt]  One  of  this  star  class,  I  expect. 
Oughtn't  to  be  here  with  us. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Quietly]  Quite  right,  Clipton. 
He'll  be  moved  when  there's  a  cell  vacant. 

CLIPTON.  He  knocks   about  like  a  wild  beast   in 

the  early  morning.     I'm  not   used   to   it — stops   me 

getting  my  sleep  out.     In  the  evening  too.     It's  not 

fair,  Mr.  Governor,  as  you're  speaking  to  me.     Sleep's 

the  comfort  I've  got  here;  I'm  entitled  to  take  it  out  full. 

WOODER  comes  out  of  the  cell,  and  instantly,  as 

though  extinguished,  CLIPTON  moves  with 

stealthy  svddewess  back  into  his  cell. 


76  JUSTICE  ACT  in 

WOODER.  All  right,  sir. 

The  GOVERNOR  nods.  The  door  is  closed  and 

locked. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Which  is  the  man  who  banged  on 
his  door  this  morning  ? 

WOODER.  [Going  towards  O'CLEARY'S  cell}  This  one, 
sir;  O'Cleary. 

He  lifts  the  disc  and  glances  through  the  peep- 
hole. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  Open. 

WOODER  throws  open  the  door.  O'CLEARY, 
who  is  seated  at  a  little  table  by  the  door  as 
if  listening,  springs  up  and  stands  at  atten- 
tion just  inside  the  doorway.  He  is  a  broad- 
faced,  middle-aged  man,  with  a  wide,  thin, 
flexible  mouth,  and  little  holes  under  his 
high  cheek-bones. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Where's  the  joke,  O'Cleary  ? 
O'CLEARY.  The  joke,  your  honour?    I've  not  seen 
one  for  a  long  time. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Banging  on  your  door  ? 
O'CLEARY.  Oh!  that! 
THE  GOVERNOR.  It's  womanish. 
O'CLEARY.  An*   it's   that   I'm   becoming   this   two 
months  past. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Anything  to  complain  of? 
O'CLEARY.  No,  sirr. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  You're  an  old  hand;  you  ought  to 
know  better. 

O'CLEARY.  Yes,  I've  been  through  it  all. 


sc.  n  JUSTICE  77 

THE  GOVERNOR.  You've  got  a  youngster  next 
door;  you'll  upset  him. 

O'CLEARY.  It  cam'  over  me,  your  honour.  I  can't 
always  be  the  same  steady  man. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Work  all  right? 

O'CLEARY.  [Taking  up  a  rush  mat  he  is  making] 
Oh!  I  can  do  it  on  me  head.  It's  the  miserablest 
stuff — don't  take  the  brains  of  a  mouse.  [Working 
his  mouth]  It's  here  I  feel  it — the  want  of  a  little  noise — 
a  terrible  little  wud  ease  me. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  if 
you  were  out  in  the  shops  you  wouldn't  be  allowed 
to  talk. 

O'CLEARY.  [With  a  look  of  profound  meaning]  Not 
with  my  mouth. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Well,  then  ? 

O'CLEARY.  But  it's  the  great  conversation  I'd  have. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [With  a  smile]  Well,  no  more 
conversation  on  your  door. 

O'CLEARY.  No,  sirr,  I  wud  not  have  the  little  wit 
to  repeat  meself. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Turning]  Good-night. 

O'CLEARY.  Good-night,  your  honour. 

He  turns  into  his  cell.     The  GOVERNOR  shuts 
the  door. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Looking  at  the  record  card]  Can't 
help  liking  the  poor  blackguard. 

WOODER.  He's  an  amiable  man,  sir. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Pointing  down  the  corridor]  Ask 
the  doctor  to  come  here,  Mr.  Wooder. 


78  JUSTICE  ACT  m 

WOODER   salutes   and  goes   away   down   the 

corridor. 

The  GOVERNOR  goes  to  the  door  of  FALDER'S 
cell.  He  raises  his  uninjured  hand  to  un- 
cover the  peep-hole;  but,  without  uncovering 
it,  shakes  his  head  and  drops  his  hand;  then, 
after  scrutinising  the  record  board,  he  opens 
the  cell  door.  FALDER,  who  is  standing 
against  it,  lurches  forward. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Beckoning  him  out]  Now  tell  me: 
can't  you  settle  down,  Falder  ? 

FALDER.  [In  a  breathless  voice]  Yes,  sir. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  You  know  what  I  mean  ?    It's  no 
good  running  your  head  against  a  stone  wall,  is  it  ? 
FALDER.  No,  sir. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  Well,  come. 
FALDER.  I  try,  sir. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  Can't  you  sleep  ? 
FALDER.  Very    little.     Between    two    o'clock    and 
getting  up's  the  worst  time. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  How's  that  ? 

FALDER.  [His  lips  twitch  with  a  sort  of  smile]  I  don't 
know,  sir.  I  was  always  nervous.  [Suddenly  voluble] 
Everything  seems  to  get  such  a  size  then.  I  feel  I'll 
never  get  out  as  long  as  I  live. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  That's  morbid,  my  lad.  Pull 
yourself  together. 

FALDER.  [With  an  equally  sudden  dogged  resentment] 

Yes — I've  got  to 

THE  GOVERNOR.     Think  of  all  these  other  fellows  ? 


ac.  n  JUSTICE  79 

FALDEB.  They're  used  to  it. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  They  all  had  to  go  through  it 
once  for  the  first  time,  just  as  you're  doing  now. 

FALDER.  Yes,  sir,  I  shall  get  to  be  like  them  in 
time,  I  suppose. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Rather  taken  aback]  H'm!  Well! 
That  rests  with  you.  Now  come.  Set  your  mind 
to  it,  like  a  good  fellow.  You're  still  quite  young. 
A  man  can  make  himself  what  he  likes. 

FALDER.  [Wistfully]  Yes,  sir. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Take  a  good  hold  of  yourself.  Do 
you  read  ? 

FALDER.  I  don't  take  the  words  in.  [Hanging  his 
head]  I  know  it's  no  good;  but  I  can't  help  think- 
ing of  what's  going  on  outside.  In  my  cell  I  can't 
see  out  at  all.  It's  thick  glass,  sir. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  You've  had  a  visitor.     Bad  news  ? 

FALDER.  Yes. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  You  mustn't  think  about  it. 

FALDER.  [Looking  back  at  his  cell]  How  can  I  help 
it,  sir? 

He  suddenly  becomes  motionless  as  WOODER 
and  the  DOCTOR  approach.  The  GOVERNOR 
motions  to  him  to  go  back  into  his  cell. 

FALDER.  [Quick  and  low]  I'm  quite  right  in  my 
head,  sir.  [He  goes  back  into  his  cell. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [To  the  DOCTOR]  Just  go  in  and 
see  him,  Clements. 

The  DOCTOR  goes  into  the  cell.  The  GOVER- 
NOR pushes  the  door  to,  nearly  dosing  it,  and 
walks  towards  the  tvindott:. 


80  JUSTICE  ACT  in 

WOODER.  [Following]  Sorry  you  should  be  troubled 
like  this,  sir.  Very  contented  lot  of  men,  on  the 
whole. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Shortly]  You  think  so  ? 

WOODER.  Yes,  sir.  It's  Christmas  doing  it,  in  my 
opinion. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [To  himself]  Queer,  that! 

WOODER.  Beg  pardon,  sir? 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Christmas! 

He  turns  towards  the  window,  leaving  WOODEK 
looking  at  him  with  a  sort  of  pained  anxiety. 

WOODER.  [Suddenly]  Do  you  think  we  make  show 
enough,  sir  ?  If  you'd  like  us  to  have  more  holly  ? 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Not  at  all,  Mr.  Wooder. 

WOODER.  Very  good,  sir. 

The  DOCTOR  has  come  out  of  FALDER'S  cell, 
and  the  GOVERNOR  beckons  to  him. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Well? 

THE  DOCTOR.  I  can't  make  anything  much  of  him. 
He's  nervous,  of  course. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Is  there  any  sort  of  case  to  report  ? 
Quite  frankly,  Doctor. 

THE  DOCTOR.  Well,  I  don't  think  the  separate's 
doing  him  any  good;  but  then  I  could  say  the  same 
of  a  lot  of  them — they'd  get  on  better  in  the  shops, 
there's  no  doubt. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  You  mean  you'd  have  to  recom- 
mend others  ? 

THE  DOCTOR.  A  dozen  at  least.  It's  on  his  nerves. 
There's  nothing  tangible.  That  fellow  there  [point- 
ing to  O'CLEARY'S  cell],  for  instance — feels  it  just  as 


TO.  ra  JUSTICE  81 

much,  in  his  way.  If  I  once  get  away  from  physical 
facts — I  shan't  know  where  I  am.  Conscientiously, 
sir,  I  don't  know  how  to  differentiate  him.  He  hasn't 
lost  weight.  Nothing  wrong  with  his  eyes.  His  pulse 
is  good.  Talks  all  right. 

THE  GOVERNOR.     It  doesn't  amount  to  melancholia  ? 

THE  DOCTOR.  [Shaking  his  head]  I  can  report  on 

him  if  you  like;  but  if  I  do  I  ought  to  report  on  others. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  I  see.     [Looking  towards  F  ALDER'S 

cell]  The  poor  devil  must  just  stick  it  then. 

As  he  says  this  he  looks  absently  at  WOODER. 
WOODER.  Beg  pardon,  sir  ? 

For  answer  the  GOVERNOR  stares  at  him,  turns 
on  his  heel,  and  walks  away.     There  is  a 
sound  as  of  beating  on  metal. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  [Stopping]  Mr.  Wooder? 
WOODER.  Banging  on  his  door,  sir.     I  thought  we 
should  have  more  of  that. 

He  hurries  forward,  passing  the  GOVERNOR, 
who  follows  closely. 

The  curtain  falls. 

SCENE   III 

FALDER'S  cell,  a  whitewashed  space  thirteen  feet  broad 
by  seven  deep,  and  nine  feet  high,  with  a  rounded 
ceiling.  The  floor  is  of  shiny  blackened  bricks. 
The  barred  window  of  opaque  glass,  with  a  ventila- 
tor, it  high  up  in  the  middle  of  the  end  wall.  In  the 


82  JUSTICE  ACT  in 

middle  of  the  opposite  end  watt  is  the  narrow  door. 
In  a  corner  are  the  mattress  and  bedding  rotted 
up  (two  blankets,  two  sJieets,  and  a  coverlet).  Above 
them  is  a  quarter-circular  wooden  shelf,  on  which  is 
a  Bible  and  several  little  devotional  books,  piled  in 
a  symmetrical  pyramid;  there  are  also  a  black  hair- 
brush, tooth-brush,  and  a  bit  of  soap.  In  another 
corner  is  the  wooden  frame  of  a  bed,  standing  on 
end.  There  is  a  dark  ventilator  under  the  window, 
and  another  over  the  door.  FALDER'S  work  (a 
shirt  to  which  he  is  putting  buttonholes)  is  hung  to  a 
nail  on  the  watt  over  a  smatt  wooden  table,  on  which 
the  novel  "Lorna  Doone"  lies  open.  Low  down 
in  the  corner  by  the  door  is  a  thick  glass  screen,  about 
a  foot  square,  covering  the  gas-jet  let  into  the  watt. 
There  is  also  a  wooden  stool,  and  a  pair  of  shoes 
beneath  it.  Three  bright  round  tins  are  set  under 
the  window. 

In  fast-failing  daylight,  FALDER,  in  his  stockings,  is  seen 
standing  motionless,  with  his  head  inclined  towards 
the  door,  listening.  He  moves  a  little  closer  to  the 
door,  his  stockinged  feet  making  no  noise.  He 
stops  at  the  door.  He  is  trying  harder  and  harder 
to  hear  something,  any  little  thing  that  is  going  on 
outside.  He  springs  suddenly  upright — as  if  at  a 
sound — and  remains  perfectly  motionless.  Then, 
with  a  heavy  sigh,  he  moves  to  his  work,  and  stands 
looking  at  it,  with  his  head  down;  he  does  a  stitch 
or  two,  hailing  the  air  of  a  man  so  lost  in  sadnest 


BC.    HI 


JUSTICE  as 


that  each  stitch  is,  as  it  were,  a  coming  to  life.  Then 
turning  abruptly,  he  begins  pacing  the  cell,  moiling 
his  head,  like  an  animal  pacing  its  cage.  He  stops 
again  at  the  door,  listens,  and,  placing  the  palms  of 
his  hands  against  it  with  his  fingers  spread  out,  leans 
his  forehead  against  the  iron.  Turning  from  it, 
presently,  he  moves  slowly  back  towards  the  window, 
tracing  his  way  with  his  finger  along  the  top  line 
of  the  distemper  that  runs  round  the  wall.  He 
stops  under  the  window,  and,  picking  up  the  lid  of 
one  of  the  tins,  peers  into  it.  It  has  grown  very 
nearly  dark.  Suddenly  the  lid  falls  out  of  his  hand 
with  a  clatter — the  only  sound  that  has  broken  the 
silence — and  he  stands  staring  intently  at  the  wall 
where  the  stuff  of  the  shirt  is  hanging  rather  white 
in  the  darkness — he  seems  to  be  seeing  somebody  or 
something  there.  There  is  a  sharp  tap  and  click; 
the  cell  light  behind  the  glass  screen  has  been  turned 
up.  The  cell  is  brightly  lighted.  FALDER  is  seen 
gasping  for  breath. 

A  sound  from  far  away,  as  of  distant,  dull  beating  on 
thick  metal,  is  suddenly  audible.  FALDER  shrinks 
back,  not  able  to  bear  this  sudden  clamour.  But  the 
sound  grows,  as  though  some  great  tumbril  were 
rolling  towards  the  cell.  And  gradually  it  seems  to 
hypnotise  him.  He  begins  creeping  inch  by  inch 
nearer  to  the  door.  The  banging  sound,  travelling 
from  cell  to  cell,  draws  closer  and  closer;  FALDER 's 
hands  are  seen  moving  as  if  his  spirit  had  already 


84  JUSTICE  ACT  in 

joined  in  this  beating,  and  the  sound  swells  till  it 
seems  to  have  entered  the  very  cell.  He  suddenly 
raises  his  clenched  fists.  Panting  violently,  he 
flings  himself  at  his  door,  and  beats  on  it. 

Ttte  curtain  fiuis. 


ACT 

The  scene  is  again  COK EBON'S  room,  at  a  Jew  minutes  to 
ten  of  a  March  morning,  two  years  later.  The  doors 
are  all  open.  SWEEDLE,  now  blessed  with  a  sprout- 
ing moustache,  is  getting  the  offices  ready.  He 
arranges  papers  on  COKESON'S  table;  then  goes  to  a 
covered  ivashstand,  raises  the  lid,  and  looks  at  him- 
self in  tht  mirror.  While  he  is  gazing  his  fill 
RUTH  HONEYWILL  comes  in  through  the  outer 
office  and  stands  in  the  doorway.  There  seems  a 
kind  of  exultation  and  excitement  behind  her  ha- 
bitual impassivity. 

SWEEDLE.  [Suddenly  seeing  her,  and  dropping  the 
lid  of  the  washstand  with  a  bang]  Hello!  It's  you! 

RUTH.  Yes. 

SWEEDLE.  There's  only  me  here!  They  don't 
waste  their  time  hurrying  down  in  the  morning.  Why, 
it  must  be  two  years  since  we  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you.  [Nervously]  What  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself  ? 

RUTH.  [Sardonically]  Living. 

SWEEDLE.  [Impressed]  If  you  want  to  see  him 
\he  points  to  COKESON'S  chair],  he'll  be  here  directly 
— never  misses — not  much.  [Delicately]  I  hope  our 
85 


86  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

friend's  back  from  the  country.  His  time's  been  up 
these  three  months,  if  I  remember.  [RUTH  nods]  I 
was  awful  sorry  about  that.  The  governor  made  a 
mistake — if  you  ask  me. 

RUTH.  He  did. 

SWEEDLE.  He  ought  to  have  given  him  a  chanst. 
And,  /  say,  the  judge  ought  to  ha'  let  him  go  after  that. 
They've  forgot  what  human  nature's  like.  Whereas 
we  know.  RUTH  gives  him  a  honeyed  smile. 

SWEEDLE.  They  come  down  on  you  like  a  cartload 
of  bricks,  flatten  you  out,  and  when  you  don't  swell 
up  again  they  complain  of  it.  I  know  'em — seen  a 
lot  of  that  sort  of  thing  in  my  time.  [He  shakes  his 
head  in  the  plenitude  of  wisdom]  Why,  only  the  other 

day  the  governor 

But  COKESON  has  come  in  through  the  outer 
office;  brisk  with  east  wind,  and  decidedly 
greyer. 

COKESON.  [Drawing  off  his  coat  and  gloves]  Why! 
it's  you!  [Then  motioning  SWEEDLE  out,  and  closing 
the  door]  Quite  a  stranger!  Must  be  two  years. 
D'you  want  to  see  me  ?  I  can  give  you  a  minute. 
Sit  down!  Family  well? 

RUTH.  Yes.     I'm  not  living  where  I  was. 

COKESON.  [Eyeing  her  askance]  I  hope  things  are 
more  comfortable  at  home. 

RUTH.     I  couldn't  stay  with  Honeywill,  after  all. 

COKESON.  You  haven't  done  anything  rash,  I  hope 
I  should  be  sorry  if  you'd  done  anything  rash. 

RUTH.  I've  kept  the  children  with  me. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  87 

COKESON.  [Beginning  to  feel  that  things  are  not  so 
jolly  as  he  had  hoped]  Well,  I'm  glad  to  have  seen 
you.  You've  not  heard  from  the  young  man,  I  sup- 
pose, since  he  came  out? 

RUTH.  Yes,  I  ran  across  him  yesterday. 

COKESON.  I  hope  he's  well. 

RUTH.  [With  sudden  fierceness]  He  can't  get  any- 
thing to  do.  It's  dreadful  to  see  him.  He's  just 
skin  and  bone. 

COKESON.  [With  genuine  concern]  Dear  me!  I'm 
sorry  to  hear  that.  [On  his  guard  again]  Didn't  they 
find  him  a  place  when  his  time  was  up? 

RUTH.  He  was  only  there  three  weeks.  It  got 
out. 

COKESON.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do  for 
you.  I  don't  like  to  be  snubby. 

RUTH.  I  can't  bear  his  being  like  that. 

COKESON.  [Scanning  her  not  unprosperous  figure]  I 
know  his  relations  aren't  very  forthy  about  him.  Per- 
haps you  can  do  something  for  him,  till  he  finds  his 
feet. 

RUTH.  Not  now.     I  could  have — but  not  now. 

COKESON.  I  don't  understand. 

.      RUTH.  [Proudly]  I've    seen    him    again — that's    all 
over. 

COKESON.  [Staring  at  her — disturbed]  I'm  a  family 
man — I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  unpleasant. 
Excuse  me — I'm  very  busy. 

RUTH.  I'd  have  gone  home  to  my  people  in  the 
country  long  ago,  but  they've  never  got  over  me  marry- 


88  JUSTICE  ACT  IT 

:ng  Honeywill.  I  never  was  waywise,  Mr.  Cokeson, 
but  I'm  proud.  I  was  only  a  girl,  you  see,  when  1 
married  him.  I  thought  the  world  of  him,  of  course 
...  he  used  to  come  travelling  to  our  farm. 

COKESON.  [Regretfully]  I  did  hope  you'd  have  got 
on  better,  after  you  saw  me. 

RUTH.  He  used  me  worse  than  ever.  He  couldn't 
break  my  nerve,  but  I  lost  my  health;  and  then  he 
began  knocking  the  children  about.  ...  I  couldn't 
stand  that.  I  wouldn't  go  back  now,  if  he  were 
dying. 

COKESON.  [Who  has  risen  and  is  shifting  about  as 
though  dodging  a  stream  of  lava]  We  mustn't  be  violent, 
must  we  ? 

RUTH.  [Smouldering]  A  man  that  can't  behave 
better  than  that [There  is  silence. 

COKESON.  [Fascinated  in  spite  of  himself]  Then  there 
you  were!  And  what  did  you  do  then? 

RUTH.  [With  a  shrug]  Tried  the  same  as  when  I  left 
him  before  .  .  .  making  skirts  .  .  .  cheap  things.  It 
was  the  best  I  could  get,  but  I  never  made  more  than 
ten  shillings  a  week,  buying  my  own  cotton  and  working 
all  day;  I  hardly  ever  got  to  bed  till  past  twelve.  I  kept 
at  it  for  nine  months.  [Fiercely]  Well,  I'm  not  fit  for 
that;  I  wasn't  made  for  it.  I'd  rather  die. 

COKESON.  My  dear  woman!  We  mustn't  talk  like 
that. 

RUTH.  It  was  starvation  for  the  children  too — after 
what  they'd  always  had.  I  soon  got  not  to  care.  I 
used  to  be  too  tired.  [She  it  silent. 


ACT  rv  JUSTICE  89 

COKESON.  [With  fearful  curiosity]  Why,  what  hap- 
pened then? 

RUTH.  [With  a  laugh]  My  employer  happened 
then — he's  happened  ever  since. 

COKESON.  Dear!  Oh  dear!  I  never  came  across  a 
thing  like  this. 

RUTH.  [Dully]  He's  treated  me  all  right.  But 
I've  done  with  that.  [Suddenly  her  lips  begin  to 
quiver,  and  she  hides  them  with  the  back  of  her  hand] 
I  never  thought  I'd  see  him  again,  you  see.  It  was 
just  a  chance  I  met  him  by  Hyde  Park.  We  went  in 
there  and  sat  down,  and  he  told  me  all  about  himself. 
Oh!  Mr.  Cokeson,  give  him  another  chance. 

COKESON.  [Greatly  disturbed]  Then  you've  both  lost 
your  livings!  What  a  horrible  position! 

RUTH.  If  he  could  only  get  here — where  there's 
nothing  to  find  out  about  him! 

COKESON.  We  can't  have  anything  derogative  to  the 
firm. 

RUTH.  I've  no  one  else  to  go  to. 

COKESON.  I'll  speak  to  the  partners,  but  I  don't 
think  they'll  take  him,  under  the  circumstances.  I 
don't  really. 

RUTH.  He  came  with  me;  he's  down  there  in  the 
street.  [She  points  to  the  window. 

COKESON.  [On  his  dignity]  He  shouldn't  have  done 
that  until  he's  sent  for.  [Then  softening  at  the  look  on 
her  face]  We've  got  a  vacancy,  as  it  happens,  but  I 
can't  promise  anything. 

RUTH.  It  would  be  the  saving  of  him. 


90  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

COKESON.  Well,  I'll  do  what  I  can,  but  I'm  not 
sanguine.  Now  tell  him  that  I  don't  want  him  till 
I  see  how  things  are.  Leave  your  address?  [Repeat- 
ing her]  83  Mullingar  Street  ?  [He  notes  it  on  blotting- 
paper]  Good-morning. 

RUTH.  Thank  you. 

She  moves  towards  the  door,  turns  as  if  to 
speak,  but  does  not,  and  goes  away. 

COKESON.  [Wiping  his  head  and  forehead  with  a 
large  white  cotton  handkerchief]  What  a  business! 
Then  looking  amongst  his  papers,  he  sounds  his  bell. 
SWEEDLE  answers  it] 

COKESON.  Was  that  young  Richards  coming  here 
to-day  after  the  clerk's  place'? 

SWEEDLE.  Yes. 

COKESON.  Well,  keep  him  in  the  air;  I  don't  want 
to  see  him  yet. 

SWEEDLE.  What  shall  I  tell  him,  sir? 

COKESON.  [With  asperity]  Invent  something.  Use 
your  brains.  Don't  stump  him  off  altogether. 

SWEEDLE.  Shall  I  tell  him  that  we've  got  illness, 
sir? 

COKESON.  No!  Nothing  untrue.  Say  I'm  not  here 
to-day. 

SWEEDLE.  Yes,  sir.     Keep  him  hankering  ? 

COKESON.  Exactly.  And  look  here.  You  remem- 
ber Falder?  I  may  be  having  him  round  to  see  me. 
Now,  treat  him  like  you'd  have  him  treat  you  in  a 
similar  position. 

SWEEDLE.  I  naturally  should  do. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  91 

COKESON.  That's  right.  When  a  man's  down 
never  hit  'im.  'Tisn't  necessary.  Give  him  a  hand 
up.  That's  a  metaphor  I  recommend  to  you  in  life. 
It's  sound  policy. 

SWEEDLE.  Do  you  think  the  governors  will  take 
him  on  again,  sir? 

COKESON.  Can't  say  anything  about  that.  [At  the 
sound  of  some  one  having  entered  the  outer  office]  Who's 
there? 

SWEEDLE.  [Going    to    the    door    and    looking]  It's 
Falder,  sir. 
COKESON.  [Vexed]  Dear  me!   That's  very  naughty 

of  her.    Tell  him  to  call  again.    I  don't  want 

He  breaks  off  as  FALDER  comes  in.  FALDER 
is  thin,  pale,  older,  his  eyes  have  grown 
more  restless.  His  clothes  are  very  worn 
and  loose. 

SWEEDLE,  nodding  cheerfully,  withdraws. 

COKESON.  Glad  to  see  you.    You're  rather  previous. 

[Trying  to  keep  things  pleasant]  Shake  hands!    She's 

striking  while  the  iron's  hot.  [He  wipes  his  forehead] 

I  don't  blame  her.    She's  anxious. 

FALDER  timidly  takes  COKESON'S  hand  and 

glances  tmoards  the  partners'  door. 
COKESON.  No — not  yet!    Sit  down!    [FALDER  sits 
in  the  chair  at  the  side  of  COKESON'S  table,  on  which  he 
places  his  cap]    Now  you  are  here  I'd  like  you  to 
give  me   a  little  account   of  yourself.    [Looking  at 
him  over  his  spectacles]  How's  your  health  ? 
FALDER    I'm  alive,  Mr.  Cokeson. 


92  JUSTICE  ACT,  iv 

COKESON.  [Preoccupied]  I'm  glad  to  hear  that. 
About  this  matter.  I  don't  like  doing  anything  out 
of  the  ordinary;  it's  not  my  habit.  I'm  a  plain  man, 
and  I  want  everything  smooth  and  straight.  But  I 
promised  your  friend  to  speak  to  the  partners,  and  I 
always  keep  my  word. 

FALDER.  I  just  want  a  chance,  Mr.  Cokeson.  I've 
paid  for  that  job  a  thousand  times  and  more.  I 
have,  sir.  No  one  knows.  They  say  I  weighed 
more  when  I  came  out  than  when  I  went  in.  They 
couldn't  weigh  me  here  [he  touches  his  head]  or  here 
[he  touches  his  heart,  and  gives  a  sort  of  laugh].  Till 
last  night  I'd  have  thought  there  was  nothing  in  here 
at  all. 

COKESON.  [Concerned]  You've  not  got  heart  disease  ? 

FALDER.  Oh!  they  passed  me  sound  enough. 

COKESON.  But  they  got  you  a  place,  didn't  they  ? 

FALDER.  Yes;  very  good  people,  knew  all  about 
it — very  kind  to  me.  I  thought  I  was  going  to  get 
on  first  rate.  But  one  day,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  other 
clerks  got  wind  of  it.  ...  I  couldn't  stick  it,  Mr. 
Cokeson,  I  couldn't,  sir. 

COKESON.  Easy,  my  dear  fellow,  easy! 

FALDER.  I  had  one  small  job  after  that,  but  it 
didn't  last. 

COKESON.  How  was  that  ? 

FALDER.  It's  no  good  deceiving  you,  Mr.  Cokeson. 
The  fact  is,  I  seem  to  be  struggling  against  a  thing 
that's  all  round  me.  I  can't  explain  it:  it's  as  if  I 
was  in  a  net ;  as  fast  as  T  cut  it  here,  it  grows  up  there. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  93 

I  didn't  act  as  I  ought  to  have,  about  references;  but 
what  are  you  to  do  ?  You  must  have  them.  And  that 
made  me  afraid,  and  I  left.  In  fact,  I'm — I'm  afraid  all 
the  time  now. 

He  bows  his  head  and  leans  dejectedly  silent 
over  the  table. 

COKESON.  I  feel  for  you — I  do  really.  Aren't  your 
sisters  going  to  do  anything  for  you  ? 

FALDER.  One's  in  consumption.     And  the  other 

COKESON.  Ye  .  .  .  es.  She  told  me  her  husband 
wasn't  quite  pleased  with  you. 

FALDER.  When  I  went  there — they  were  at  supper — 
my  sister  wanted  to  give  me  a  kiss — I  know.  But  he 
just  looked  at  her,  and  said :  "  What  have  you  come  for  ?  " 
Well,  I  pocketed  my  pride  and  I  said : "  Aren't  you  going 
to  give  me  your  hand,  Jim  ?  Cis  is,  I  know,"  I  said. 
"Look  here!"  he  said,  "that's  all  very  well,  but  we'd 
better  come  to  an  understanding.  I've  been  expecting 
you,  and  I've  made  up  my  mind.  I'll  give  you  fifteen 
pounds  to  go  to  Canada  with."  "I  see,"  I  said — "good 
riddance!  No,  thanks;  keep  your  fifteen  pounds." 
Friendship's  a  queer  thing  when  you've  been  where 
I  have. 

COKESON.  I  understand.  Will  you  take  the  fifteen 
pound  from  me  ?  [Flustered,  as  FALDER  regards  him 
with  a  queer  smile]  Quite  without  prejudice;  I  meant 
it  kindly. 

FALDER.  I'm  not  allowed  to  leave  the  country. 

COKESON.  Oh!  ye  ...  es — ticket-of -leave ?  You 
aren't  looking  the  thing. 


94  JUSTICE 


ACT  rv 


FALDER.  I've  slept  in  the  Park  three  nights  this  week. 
The  dawns  aren't  all  poetry  there.  But  meeting  her — I 
feel  a  different  man  this  morning.  I've  often  thought 
the  being  fond  of  her's  the  best  thing  about  me;  it's 
sacred,  somehow — and  yet  it  did  for  inc.  That's  queer, 
isn't  it  ? 

COKESON.  I'm  sure  we're  all  very  sorry  for  you. 

FALDER.  That's  what  I've  found,  Mr.  Cokeson. 
Awfully  sorry  for  me.  [With  quiet  bitterness]  But  it 
doesn't  do  to  associate  with  criminals! 

COKESON.  Come,  come,  it's  no  use  calling  yourself 
names.  That  never  did  a  man  any  good.  Put  a 
face  on  it. 

FALDER.  It's  easy  enough  to  put  a  face  on  it,  sir, 
when  you're  independent.  Try  it  when  you're  down 
like  me.  They  talk  about  giving  you  your  deserts. 
Well,  I  think  I've  had  just  a  bit  over. 

COKESON.  [Eyeing  him  askance  over  his  spectacles] 
I  hope  they  haven't  made  a  Socialist  of  you. 

FALDER  is  suddenly  still,  as  if  brooding  over 
his  past  self;  he  utters  a  peculiar  laugh. 

COKESON.  You  must  give  them  credit  for  the  best 
intentions.  Really  you  must.  Nobody  wishes  you 
harm,  I'm  sure. 

FALDER.  I  believe  that,  Mr.  Cokeson.  Nobody 
wishes  you  harm,  but  they  down  you  all  the  same. 

This  feeling [He  stares  round  him,  as  though  at 

something  closing  in]  It's  crushing  me.    \With  sudden 
impersonality]  I  know  it  is. 

COKESON.  [Horribly  disturbed]  There's  nothing  there! 


ACT  rv  JUSTICE  95 

We  must  try  and  take  it  quiet.  I'm  sure  I've  often 
had  you  in  my  prayers.  Now  leave  it  to  me.  I'll  use 
my  gumption  and  take  'em  when  they're  jolly. 

[As  he  speaks  the  two  partners  come  in. 

COKESON.  [Rather  disconcerted,  but  trying  to  put 
them  all  at  ease]  I  didn't  expect  you  quite  so  soon.  I've 
just  been  having  a  talk  with  this  young  man.  I  think 
you'll  remember  him. 

JAMES.  [With  a  grave,  keen  look]  Quite  well.  How 
are  you,  Falder  ? 

WALTER.  [Holding  out  his  hand  almost,  timidly] 
Very  glad  to  see  you  again,  Falder. 

FALDEK.  [Who  has  recovered  his  self-control,  takes 
the  hand]  Thank  you,  sir. 

COKESON.  Just  a  word,  Mr.  James.  [To  FALDER, 
pointing  to  the  clerks'  office]  You  might  go  in  there  a 
minute.  You  know  your  way.  Our  junior  won't  be 
coming  this  morning.  His  wife's  just  had  a  little 
family. 

FALDER  goes  uncertainly  out  into  the  clerks'  office. 

COKESON.  [Confidentially]  I'm  bound  to  tell  you  all 
about  it.  He's  quite  penitent.  But  there's  a  pre- 
judice against  him.  And  you're  not  seeing  him  to 
advantage  this  morning;  he's  under-nourished.  It's 
very  trying  to  go  without  your  dinner. 

JAMES.  Is  that  so,  Cokeson  ? 

COKESON.  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  He's  had  his  lesson. 
Now  we  know  all  about  him,  and  we  want  a  clerk. 
There  is  a  young  fellow  applying,  but  I'm  keeping 
him  in  the  air. 


96  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

JAMES.  A  gaol-bird  in  the  office,  Cokeson?  I 
don't  see  it. 

WALTER.  "The  rolling  of  the  chariot- wheels  of 
Justice!"  I've  never  got  that  out  of  my  head. 

JAMES.  I've  nothing  to  reproach  myself  with  in  this 
affair.  What's  he  been  doing  since  he  came  out  ? 

COKESON.  He's  had  one  or  two  places,  but  he 
hasn't  kept  them.  He's  ser>itive — quite  natural. 
Seems  to  fancy  everybody's  dow  i  on  him. 

JAMES.  Bad  sign.  Don't  like  the  fellow — never  did 
from  the  first.  "Weak  character"  's  written  all  over 
him. 

WALTER.  I  think  we  owe  him  a  leg  up. 

JAMES.  He  brought  it  all  on  himself. 

WALTER.  The  doctrine  of  full  responsibility  doesn't 
quite  hold  in  these  days. 

JAMES.  [Rather  grimly]  You'll  find  it  safer  to  hold 
it  for  all  that,  my  boy. 

WALTER.  For  oneself,  yes — not  for  other  people, 
thanks. 

JAMES.  Well!  I  don't  want  to  be  hard. 

COKESON.  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  He  seems 
to  see  something  [spreading  his  arms]  round  him. 
'Tisn't  healthy. 

JAMES.  What  about  that  woman  he  was  mixed  up 
with?  I  saw  some  one  uncommonly  like  her  outside 
as  we  came  in. 

COKESON.  That, !  Well,  I  can't  keep  anything  from 
you.  He  has  met  her. 

JAMES.  Is  she  with  her  husband? 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  97 

COKESON.    No. 

JAMES.  Falder  living  with  her,  I  suppose? 

COKESON.  [Desperately  trying  to  retain  the  new-found 
jollity]  I  don't  know  that  of  my  own  knowledge. 
'Tisn't  my  business. 

JAMES.  It's  our  business,  if  we're  going  to  engage 
him,  Cokeson. 

COKESON.  [Reluctantly]  I  ought  to  tell  you,  perhaps. 
I've  had  the  party  here  this  morning. 

JAMES.  I  thought  so.  [To  WALTER]  No,  my  dear 
boy,  it  won't  do.  Too  shady  altogether! 

COKESON.  The  two  things  together  make  it  very 
awkward  for  you — I  see  that. 

WALTER.  [Tentatively]  I  don't  quite  know  what 
we  have  to  do  with  his  private  life. 

JAMES.  No,  no!  He  must  make  a  clean  sheet  of 
it,  or  he  can't  come  here. 

WALTER.  Poor  devil! 

COKESON.  Will  you  have  him  in?  [And  as  JAMES 
nods]  I  think  I  can  get  him  to  see  reason. 

JAMES.  [Grimly]  You  can  leave  that  to  me,  Cokeson. 

WALTER.  [To  JAMES,  in  a  low  voice,  while  COKESON 
is  summoning  FALDER]  His  whole  future  may  depend 
on  what  we  do,  dad. 

FALDER  comes  in.     He   has  pulled  himself 
together,  and  presents  a  steady  front. 

JAMES.  Now  look  here,  Falder.  My  son  and  I  want 
to  give  you  another  chance;  but  there  are  two  things 
I  must  say  to  you.  In  the  first  place:  It's  no  good 
coming  here  as  a  victim.  If  you've  any  notion  that 


98  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

you've  been  unjustly  treated — get  rid  of  it.  You  can't 
play  fast  and  loose  with  morality  and  hope  to  go  scot- 
free.  If  Society  didn't  take  care  of  itself,  nobody 
would — the  sooner  you  realise  that  the  better. 

FALDER.  Yes,  sir;  but — may  I  say  something? 

JAMES.  Well? 

FALDER.  I  had  a  lot  of  time  to  think  it  over  in 
prison.  [He  stops. 

COKESON.  [Encouraging  him]  I'm  sure  you  did. 

FALDER.  There  were  all  sorts  there.  And  what  I 
mean,  sir,  is,  that  if  we'd  been  treated  differently  the  first 
time,  and  put  under  somebody  that  could  look  after  us  a 
bit,  and  not  put  in  prison,  not  a  quarter  of  us  would 
ever  have  got  there. 

JAMES.  [Shaking  his  head]  I'm  afraid  I've  very 
grave  doubts  of  that,  Falder. 

FALDER.  [With  a  gleam  of  malice]  Yes,  sir,  so  I  found. 

JAMES.  My  good  fellow,  don't  forget  that  you  be- 
gan it. 

FALDER.  I  never  wanted  to  do  wrong. 

JAMES.    Perhaps  not.     But  you  did. 

FALDER.  [With  all  the  bitterness  of  his  past  suffering] 
It's  knocked  me  out  of  time.  [Pulling  himself  up] 
That  is,  I  mean,  I'm  not  what  I  was. 

JAMES.  This  isn't  encouraging  for  us,  Falder. 

COKESON.  He's  putting  it  awkwardly,  Mr.  James. 

FALDER.  [Thrcrwing  over  his  caution  from  the  inten- 
sity of  his  feeling]  I  mean  it,  Mr.  Cokeson. 

JAMES.  Now,  lay  aside  all  those  thoughts,  Falder, 
and  look  to  the  future. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  9J> 

FALDER.  [Almost  eagerly]  Yes,  sir,  but  you  don't 
understand  what  prison  is.  It's  here  it  gets  you. 

He  grips  his  chest. 

COKESON.  [In  a  whisper  to  JAMES]  I  told  you  he 
wanted  nourishment. 

WALTER.  Yes,  but,  my  dear  fellow,  that'll  pass 
away.  Time's  merciful. 

FALDER.  [With  his  face  twitching]  I  hope  so,  sir. 

JAMES.  [Much  more  gently]  Now,  my  boy,  what 
you've  got  to  do  is  to  put  all  the  past  behind  you 
and  build  yourself  up  a  steady  reputation.  And  that 
brings  me  to  the  second  thing.  This  woman  you  were 
mixed  up  with — you  must  give  us  your  word,  you  know, 
to  have  done  with  that.  There's  no  chance  of  your 
keeping  straight  if  you're  going  to  beg'n  your  future 
with  such  a  relationship. 

FALDER.  [Looking  from  one  to  the  other  ivith  a  hunted 
expression]  But  sir  ...  but  sir  ...  it's  the  one 
thing  I  looked  forward  to  all  that  time.  And  she 
too  ...  I  couldn't  find  her  before  last  night. 

During  this  and  what  follows  COKESON  be- 
comes more  and  more  uneasy. 

JAMES.  This  is  painful,  Falder.  But  you  must  see 
for  yourself  that  it's  impossible  for  a  firm  like  this  to 
close  its  eyes  to  everything.  Give  us  this  proof  of 
your  resolve  to  keep  straight,  and  you  can  come  back — 
not  otherwise. 

FALDER.  [After  staring  at  JAMES,  suddenly  stiffens 
himself]  I  couldn't  give  her  up.  I  couldn't!  Oh,  sir! 


100  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

I'm  all  she's  got  to  look  to.     And  I'm  sure  she's  all 
I've  got. 

JAMES.  I'm  very  sorry,  Falder,  but  I  must  be  firm. 
It's  for  the  benefit  of  you  both  in  the  long  run.  No 
good  can  come  of  this  connection.  It  was  the  cause 
of  all  your  disaster. 

FALDER.  But  sir,  it  means — having  gone  through 
all  that — getting  broken  up — my  nerves  are  in  an 
awful  state — for  nothing.  I  did  it  for  her. 

JAMES.  Come!  If  she's  anything  of  a  woman 
she'll  see  it  for  herself.  She  won't  want  to  drag  you 
down  further.  If  there  were  a  prospect  of  your  being 
able  to  marry  her — it  might  be  another  thing. 

FALDER.  It's  not  my  fault,  sir,  that  she  couldn't 
get  rid  of  him — she  would  have  if  she  could.  That's 
been  the  whole  trouble  from  the  beginning.  [Looking 
suddenly  at  WALTER]  ...  If  anybody  would  help  her! 
It's  only  money  wanted  now,  I'm  sure. 

COKESON.  [Breaking  in,  as  WALTER  hesitates,  and  is 
about  to  speak]  I  don't  think  we  need  consider  that 
— it's  rather  far-fetched. 

FALDER.  [To  WALTER,  appealing]  He  must  have 
given  her  full  cause  since;  she  could  prove  that  he 
drove  her  to  leave  him. 

WALTER.  I'm  inclined  to  do  what  you  say,  Falder, 
if  it  can  be  managed. 

FALDER.  Oh,  sir  ! 

He  goes  to  the  window  and  looks  down  into  th& 
street. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  101 

COKESON.  [Hurriedly]  You  don't  take  me,  Mr. 
Walter.  I  have  my  reasons. 

FALDER.  [From  the  window]  She's  down  there,  sir. 
Will  you  see  her?  I  can  beckon  to  her  from  here. 

WALTER  hesitates,  and  looks  from  COKESON  to 

JAMES. 
JAMES.  [With  a  sharp  nod]  Yes,  let  her  come. 

FALDER  beckons  from  the  window. 
COKESON.  [In  a  low  fluster  to  JAMES  and  WALTER] 
No,  Mr.  James.  She's  not  been  quite  what  she 
ought  to  ha'  been,  while  this  young  man's  been  away. 
She's  lost  her  chance.  We  can't  consult  how  to 
swindle  the  Law. 

FALDER  has  come  from  the  window.  The 
three  men  look  at  him  in  a  sort  of  awed 
silence. 

FALDER.  [With  instinctive  apprehension  of  some 
change — looking  from  one  to  the  other]  There's  been 
nothing  between  us,  sir,  to  prevent  it.  ...  What  I 
said  at  the  trial  was  true.  And  last  night  we  only 
just  sat  in  the  Park. 

SWEEDLE  comes  in  from  the  outer  office. 
COKESON.  What  is  it  ? 

SWEEDLE.  Mrs.  Honey  will.  [There  is  silence. 

JAMES.  Show  her  in. 

RUTH  comes  slowly  in,  and  stands  stoically 
with  FALDER  on  one  side  and  the  three 
men  on  the  other.  No  one  speaks.  COKE- 
SON  turns  to  his  table,  bending  over  his 


302  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

papers  as  though  the  burden  of  the  situation 
were  forcing  him  back  into  his  accustomed 
groove. 

JAMES.  [Sharply]  Shut  the  door  there.    [SWEEDLE 
shuts  the  door]  We've  asked  you  to  come  up  because 
there  are  certain  facts  to  be  faced  in  this  matter.     I 
understand  you  have  only  just  met  Falder  again. 
RUTH.  Yes — only  yesterday. 

JAMES.  He's  told  us  about  himself,  and  we're  very 
sorry  for  him.  I've  promised  to  take  him  back  here 
if  he'll  make  a  fresh  start.  [Looking  steadily  at  RUTH] 
This  is  a  matter  that  requires  courage,  ma'am. 

RUTH,  who  is  looking  at  FALDER,  begins  to 
twist  her  hands  in  front  of  her  as  though 
prescient  of  disaster. 

FALDER.  Mr.  Walter  How  is  good  enough  to  say 
that  he'll  help  us  to  get  you  a  divorce. 

RUTH  flashes  a  startled  glance  at  JAMES  and 

WALTER. 
JAMES.  I  don't  think  that's  practicable,  Falder. 

FALDER.  But,  sir ! 

JAMES.  [Steadily]  Now,  Mrs.  Honeywill.  You're 
fond  of  him. 

RUTH.  Yes,  sir;  I  love  him. 

She  looks  miserably  at  FALDEH. 
JAMES.  Then  you  don't  want  to  stand  in  his  way, 
do  you  ? 

RUTH.  [In  a  faint  voice]  I  could  take  care  of  him. 
JAMES.  The  best  way  you  can  take  care  of  him  will 
be  to  give  him  up. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  103 

FALDER.  Nothing  shall  make  me  give  you  up. 
You  can  get  a  divorce.  There's  been  nothing  between 
us,  has  there? 

RUTH.  [Mournfully  shaking  her  head — without  look- 
ing at  him]  No. 

FALDER.  We'll  keep  apart  till  it's  over,  sir;  if  you'll 
only  help  us — we  promise. 

JAMES.  [To  RUTH]  You  see  the  thing  plainly, 
don't  you  ?  You  see  what  I  mean  ? 

RUTH.  [Just  above  a  whisper]  Yes. 

COKESON.  [To  himself]  There's  a  dear  woman. 

JAMES.  The  situation  is  impossible. 

RUTH.  Must  I,  sir? 

JAMES.  [Forcing  himself  to  look  at  her]  I  put  it  to 
you,  ma'am.  His  future  is  in  your  hands. 

RUTH.  [Miserably]  I  want  to  do  the  best  for  him. 

JAMES.  [A  little  huskily]  That's  right,  that's 
right! 

FALDER.  I  don't  understand.  You're  not  going  to 

give  me  up — after  all  this  ?  There's  something 

[Starting  forward  to  JAMES]  Sir,  I  swear  solemnly 
there's  been  nothing  between  us. 

JAMES.  I  believe  you,  Falder.  Come,  my  lad,  be 
as  plucky  as  she  is. 

FALDER.  Just  now  you  were  going  to  help  us.  [He 
stares  at  RUTH,  who  is  standing  absolutely  still;  his  face 
and  hands  twitch  and  quiver  as  the  truth  dawns  on  him] 
What  is  it  ?  You've  not  been 

WALTER.  Father! 

JAMES.  [Hurriedly]  There  there'    That'll  do,  that'll 


104  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

do!     I'll  give  you  your  chance,  Falder.     Don't  let  me 
know  what  you  do  with  yourselves,  that's  all. 
FALDER.  [.4s  if  he  has  not  heard]  Ruth  ? 

RUTH  looks  at  him;  and  FALDER  covers  his  face 

with  his  hands.     There  is  silence. 
COKESON.  [Suddenly]  There's  some  one  out  there. 
[To  RUTH]  Go  in  here.     You'll  feel  better  by  yourself 
for  a  minute. 

He  points  to  the  clerks'  room  and  moves  tow- 
ards the  outer  office.     FALDER  does  not  move. 
RUTH    puts  out   her   hand  timidly.      He 
shrinks   back   from  the  touch.      She  turn* 
and  goes  miserably   into   the  clerks'  room. 
With  a  brusque  movement  he  follows,  seiz- 
ing her  by  the  shoulder  just  inside  the  door- 
way.    COKESON  shuts  the  door. 
JAMES.  [Pointing  to  the  outer*ojfice]  Get  rid  of  that, 
whoever  it  is. 

SWEEDLE.  [Opening  the  office  door,  in  a  scared  voice] 
Detective-Sergeant  Wister. 

The  detective  enters,  and  closes  the  door  behind 

him. 

WISTER.  Sorry  to  disturb  you,  sir.  A  clerk  you 
had  here,  two  years  and  a  half  ago.  I  arrested  him 
in  this  room. 

JAMES.  What  about  him  ? 

WISTER.  I  thought  perhaps  I  might  get  his  where- 
abouts from  you.  [There  is  an  awkward  silence. 
COKESON.  [Pleasantly,  coming  to  the  rescue]  We're 
not  responsible  for  his  movements;  you  know  that. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  *  10.5 

JAMES.  What  do  you  want  with  him  ? 

WISTER.  He's  failed  to  report  himself  this  last  four 
weeks. 

WALTER.  How  d'you  mean  ? 

WISTER.  Ticket-of-leave  won't  be  up  for  another 
six  months,  sir. 

WALTER.  Has  he  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  police 
till  then  ? 

WISTER.  We're  bound  to  know  where  he  sleeps 
every  night.  I  dare  say  we  shouldn't  interfere,  sir, 
even  though  he  hasn't  reported  himself.  But  we've 
just  heard  there's  a  serious  matter  of  obtaining  em- 
ployment with  a  forged  reference.  What  with  the 
two  things  together — we  must  have  him. 

Again  there  is  silence.  WALTER  and  COKESON 
steal  glances  at  JAMES,  who  stands  staring 
steadily  at  the  detective. 

COKESON.  [Expansively}  We're  very  busy  at  the 
moment.  If  you  could  make  it  convenient  to  call 
again  we  might  be  able  to  tell  you  then. 

JAMES.  [Decisively]  I'm  a  servant  of  the  Law,  but 
I  dislike  peaching.  In  fact,  I  can't  do  such  a  thing. 
If  you  want  him  you  must  find  him  without  us. 

As  he.  speaks  his  eye  falls  on  FALDER'S  cap, 
still  lying  on  the  table,  and  his  face  contracts. 

WISTER.  [Noting  the  gesture — quietly]  Very  good, 
sir.  I  ought  to  warn  you  that,  having  broken  the 
terms  of  his  licence,  he's  still  a  convict,  and  sheltering 
a  convict 


106  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

JAMES.  I  shelter  no  one.  But  you  mustn't  come 
here  and  ask  questions  which  it's  not  my  business  to 
answer. 

WISTER.  [Dryly]  I  won't  trouble  you  further  then, 
gentlemen. 

COKESON.  I'm  sorry  we  couldn't  give  you  the 
information.  You  quite  understand,  don't  you? 
Good-morning ! 

WISTER  turns  to  go,  but  instead  of  going  to 
the  door  of  the  outer  office  he  goes  to  the 
door  of  the  clerks'  room. 

COKESOX.  The  other  door  .  .  .  the  other  door! 

WISTER  opens  the  clerks'  door.  RUTH'S  voice 
is  heard:  "Oh,  do!"  and  FALDER'S:  "/ 
can't!"  There  is  a  little  pause;  then,  with 
sharp  fright,  RUTH  says:  "Who's  that?" 
WISTER  has  gone  in. 

The  three  men  look  aghast  at  the  door. 
WISTER.  [From  within}  Keep  back,  please! 

He  comes  swiftly  out  with  his  arm  twisted 
in  FALDER'S.  The  latter  gives  a  white, 
staring  look  at  the  three  men. 

WALTER.  Let  him  go  this  time,  for  God's  sake! 
WISTER.  I  couldn't  take  the  responsibility,  sir. 
FALDER.  [With  a  queer,  desperate  laugh]  Good! 

Flinging  a  look  back  at  RUTH,  he  throws  up  his 
head,  and  goes  out  through  the  outer  office, 
half  dragging  WISTER  after  him. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  107 

WALTER.  [With   despair]  That   finishes   him.    It'll 
go  on  for  ever  now. 

SWEEDLE   can   be   seen   staring   through  the 

outer  door.     There  are  sounds  of  footsteps 

descending  the  stone  stairs;  suddenly  a  dull 

thud,  a  faint  "My  God!"  in  WISTER'S  voice. 

JAMES.  What's  that  ? 

SWEEDLE  dashes  forward.     The  door  swings 

to  behind  him.     There  is  dead  silence. 
WALTER.  [Starting  forward  to  the  inner  room]  The 
woman — she's  fainting! 

He  and  COKESON  support  the  fainting  RUTH 

from  the  doorway  of  the  clerks'  room. 
COKESON.  [Distracted]  Here,  my  dear!    There,  there! 
WALTER.  Have  you  any  brandy  ? 
COKESON.  I've  got  sherry. 
WALTER.  Get  it,  then.     Quick! 

He  places  RUTH  in  a  chair — which  JAMES  has 

dragged  forward. 

COKESON.  [With    sherry]  Here!    It's    good    strong 

sherry.    [They  tvy  to  force  the  sherry  between  her  lips. 

There  is  the  sound  of  feet,  and  they  slop  to 

listen. 
The    outer    door    is    reopened — WISTER    and 

SWEEDLE  are  seen  carrying  some  burden. 
JAMES.  [Hurrying  forward]  What  is  it? 

They  lay  the  burden  down  in  the  outer  office, 
out  of  sight,  and  all  but  RUTH  cluster  round 
'   it,  speaking  in  hushed  voices. 


108  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

WISTER.  He  jumped — neck's  broken. 
WALTER.  Good  God! 

WISTER.  He  must  have  been  mad  to  think  he  could 
give  me  the  slip  like  that.  And  what  was  it — just  a 
few  months! 

WALTER.  [Bitterly]  Was  that  all? 
JAMES.  What  a  desperate  thing!  [Then,  in  a  voice 
unlike  his  own]   Run  for  a  doctor — you!    [SWEEDLE 
rushes  from  the  outeroffice]    An  ambulance! 
WISTER  goes  out.     On  RUTH'S  face  an  expres- 
sion of  fear  and  horror  has  been  seen  grow- 
ing, as  if  she  dared  not  turn  towards  the 
voices.     She  now  rises  and  steals  towards 
them. 

WALTER.  [Turning  suddenly]  Look! 

The  three  men  shrink  back  out  of  her  way,  one 
by  one,  into  COKESON'S  room.  RUTH  drops 
on  her  knees  by  the  body. 

RUTH.  [In  a  whisper]  What  is  it  ?    He's  not  breath- 
ing.    [She  crouches  over  him]  My  dear!    My  pretty! 
In  the  outer  office  doorway  the  figures  of  men 

are  seen  standing. 

RUTH.  [Leaping  to  her  feet]  No,  no!  No,  no!  He's 
dead!  [The  figures  of  the  men  shrink  back. 

COKESON.  [Stealing  forward.  In  a  hoarse  voice] 
There,  there,  poor  dear  woman ! 

At  the  sound  behind  her  RUTH  faces  round  at 
him. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  109 

COKESON.  No  one '11  touch  him  now!    Never  again! 
He's  safe  with  gentle  Jesus! 

RUTH  stands  as  though  turned  to  stone  in  the 
doorway  staring  at  COKESON,  who,  binding 
humbly  before  her,  holds  out  his  hand  as  one 
would  to  a  lost  dog. 

The  curtain  falls. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

C9LLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


J3  63 

Octl865 


Oct2765 
«EC*DCOLOBL 


Wov  865 
REC'D  COL.  LIB, 

NOV  5     1965 


Book  Slip-25m-9,'60(.B2«36s4)4280 


A    001  184471     9 


•nla,  Los  Angeles 


I  005  476  321  4 


College 
Library 

PR 

6013 

G13A19 

1921 

ser.2 


